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SABBATH SONNET.

Mrs. Bemans.

COMPOSED FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DEDICATED TO HER BROTHER.]

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Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day!

The Halls, from old heroic ages grey,

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play,

Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread
With them those pathways-to the feverish
bed

Of sickness bound. Yet, oh, my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings
still'd

To one deep calm, of lowliest thankfulness.

ECHO.

Milton.

SWEET Echo, sweetest nymph that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell,

By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcisssus are?

Oh! if thou have

Hid them in some flow'ry cave,
Tell me but where

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heaven's
harmonies.

LIFE.
Byron.

BETWEEN two worlds, life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

How little do we know that which we are,

How less what we may be; the eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar

Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave, but like some passing

waves.

KINDRED CONNECTION.

W. . R.

KINDRED Connection !-chain around our hearts
We all so fondly bind-would that it were
As permanent as precious-but of parts
Material formed, although we thus declare
And sign a compact or whatever arts
We use to cherish it with all our care,
It will at times keep breaking here and there.
A link too worn, too brittle, or too weak,
Will leave it marr'd, as we have seen before,
Till sever'd all; but let us only seek

To bear the sterling stamp they sever'd bore, Then-here though mixed with earth it could but break,

Death will but fine th' imperishable ore,
And formed anew on high, it there will part

no more.

THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

Spencer.

How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succor us that succor want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul friends to aid us militant.
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round us plant;
And all for love and nothing for reward:
Oh! why should heavenly love to man have
such regard?

WOMAN.

Byron.

THE very first

life must spring from woman's

Of human breast,

Your first small words are taught you from

her lips,

Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs

Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, When men have shrunk from the ignoble care Of watching the last hour of him who led them.

THE END OF LIFE.

Mrs. Fry.

WHAT though the moments fly,
Mourn not their speed;

Sweet shall thy portion be
Whither they lead.

Though sorrow count the hours,
Hoping the last,

Let not thy spirit faint,
Ere they be past.

Smile when the moments fly,
Smile when they stay,
Life's longest, shortest night,
Closes in day.

HOPE.

Byron.

WHITE as a white sail on a dusky sea,
When half the horizon's clouded, and half-free
Fluttering between the dim wave and the sky,
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity.
Her anchor parts! but still her snow-white sail
Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale,

Though every wave she rides divides us more,
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore.

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