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Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart
Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude,
Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind,
And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired Wisdom, which works through patience; thence he
In many a calmer hour of sober thought,
HE night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
From the lovely lady's cheek;
The Mother and Child.
ER by her smile how soon the stranger knows !
How soon by this the glad discovery shows !
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
But soon a nobler task demands her care ; Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, Telling of Him who sees in secret there. And now the volume on her knee has caught His wand'ring eye—now many a written thought Never to die, with many a lisping sweet His moving murm’ring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released, he chases the bright butterfly ;
THE MOTHER AND CHILD.
And chides, and buffets, clinging by the mane!
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
[The name of SAMUEL ROGERS, the banker-poet, recalls several successive generations of literary celebrities. Born in 1762, he entered the field of letters while the great "Doctor" still towered on his throne as the Grand Cham of literature, and he survived till 1855, almost seventy years after the production of his first collection of poems, which were published in 1786, the year in which Robert Burns first appeared as an author. Rogers is not a very prolific writer; and his poems are rather remarkable for grace and polish of diction, than for innate power. His best work, the “Italy,” was published in 1822. Rogers will long be remembered as a kind patron of his less fortunate compeers in literature and art; his great wealth giving him opportunities of doing good, of which he availed himself in no stinted measure. Many have cause to remember him with gratitude.]
HE finished garden
to the view Its vistas opens, and its valleys green Snatched through the ver
dant maze, the hurried
eye Distracted wanders: now
the bowery walk Of covert close, where
scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthened
gloom, protracted sweeps; Now meets the bended sky;
the river now Dimpling along the breezy
ruffled lake, Theforest darkeninground,
the glittering spire, Th'ethereal mountain, and
the distant main. But why so far excursive?
when at hand, Along these blushing bor
ders, bright with dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace ; Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose; violet, darkly blue ;
With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;
Then comes the tulip race, where Beauty plays
To family, as flies the father dust,
The varied colours run, and while they break
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still ;
With hues on hues expression cannot paint,