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Even as the heart grows stiller by the lull
Oh! when with her through autumn fields I've strayed,
Then came consumption with her languid moods,
She came with hectic glow and wasted cheek,
Pallid like the second bow, yet would she speak
The words of hope e'en while she passed away, Amid the closing clouds, and faded ray by ray.
She died i' the bud of being, in the spring,
The time of flowers, and songs, and balmy air,
But thus 'twas ever with the good and fair-
Or time's hoar frost come down to blench the hair;
The pangs that pass not by the wounds that never heal.
They laid her in the robes that wrap the dead,
But only lulled in some Elysian dream;
Like evening's rose-light when the summer day Hath fled o'er sea and shore, and faded far away y! John Malcolm, Esq.
MY FATHER'S AT THE HELM.
The curling waves, with awful roar,
And pallid fear's distracting power
Save one, the Captain's darling child,
And cheerful, with composure, smiled
And sport'st thou thus,' a seaman cried,
• While terrors overwhelm ?'
Why should I fear?' the boy replied, "My father's at the helm.'
So when our worldly all is reft,
We still have one sure anchor left,-
He to our prayers will bend his ear,
He turns to smiles each trembling tear,-
Then turn to him, 'mid sorrows wild,
"Oh that I had the wings of a dove, that I might flee away
and be at rest."
So prayed the Psalmist to be free
From mortal bonds and earthly thrall;
Full oft the heart-breathed prayer of all.
With faltering foot and aching breast,
While hearts are young, and hopes are high,
Its sounds are music to the ear.
Is ours fair woman's angel smile,
So of her cheek and eye, the while,
And with speechless grief opprest,
Beyond the hills-beyond the sea,
Away, and be with them we love.
And life is but a wintry waste, This this at last must be our prayer, To flee away and be at rest.
John Malcolm, Esq.
RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD.
How sweet it is, in twilight shade,