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She had a loved, an infant child;

She dropped upon its face a tear; The babe looked gently up and smiled,

And felt, though wrapped in storms, no fear.

Strange images were at her heart,
Sad thoughts her mind did occupy;
That she was summoned thus to part,
And in this dreadful way to die.

And yet she chid her murmuring soul,
And strove her rebel thoughts to quell ;
And as she bade a last adieu,

She gently breathed out, All is well.

And then the boy was quite o'ercome

At this new stroke, so full of sorrow; His failing voice and strength give signs, That he with her shall see no morrow.

No tear was shed, no word was spoken,
He fell down at his mother's side;
The spring was dry, the heart was broken,
He closed his beaming eye and died.

The father now was left alone,

Save that his babe was yet alive,

He took it fondly in his arms,

And onward through the drifts did strive.

One mighty effort he put forth,

(Despair gave momentary power,)

And plunged, and sunk, and struggled on,
But soon he found his strength was o'er.

Some little way he forced his track,
But now 't was fruitless all and vain;
And with a starting tear turned back,
And looked upon his wife again.

He lived to see his babe expire;
And then he placed them side by side;
And kneeling o'er them in his grief,
Poured out his broken prayer, and died.

CONCLUSION.

This is indeed a varied scene,

With joys and griefs together thrown; We may be what we have not been, What is before us is not known.

To-day our sun is pure and bright,
To-morrow he goes darkly down,
And they, who triumphed in his light,
Now weep and wither in his frown.

"T is God's to do as he sees fit; To raise us up or lay us low;

'Tis ours to worship and submit,

And bless the hand that gives the blow.

For though we cannot see it here,

Why we are called in grief to dwell; The time will come, when 't will appear, That all was ordered right and well.

DARK-ROLLING CONNECTICUT.

I.

Оí, tell me no more of the blisses prevailing
In the canopied halls of the noble and great;
Oh, tell me no more of the joys never-failing,

That are deemed at the feet of the wealthy to wait;
For dearer than riches or power, are the mountains,
The hills and the vales, to remembrance allied;
The murmuring of winds, and the rushing of fountains,
That haste to Connecticut's dark-rolling tide.

II.

Dark-rolling Connecticut! Oft I remember

The days and the years, that I spent on thy shore, And the tribute of tear-drops unconsciously render, When thinking those days shall be present no more. I walked by the side of thy waves darkly flowing,

And loud was the wild-bird, that sung in the trees; On thy green summer borders, the flowret was blowing, And health from the mountains came borne on the breeze.

III.

Though a dream of the past, still 't is fruitful of pleasure,
To remember, when nature had gone to decay,
And the forests were mantled in winter's white treasure,
How pleasantly passed the long evenings away.
Around the blithe hearth, that was cheerfully gleaming,
Drew the circle, where beauty and wit held their reign,
With soft sayings and smiles the day's hardships redeeming,
Ah, never to soothe the sad spirit again.

IV.

Remembrance the joy of those moments shall cherish,

Though quickly they faded, though long they have past, Nor e'er from the depths of my heart shall they perish, As long as a throb in that bosom shall last.

And I think, for we all must be summoned to part,

"T would soften its anguish, my head could I pillow, When life, like a vision, shall fade from my heart, By the side of Connecticut's dark-rolling billow.

THE CLOSING YEAR.

In the glad days of summer the lily and rose,
The delight of the garden, were fragrant and bright;
But their bloom and their fragrance have come to a close,
And another short year hath betaken to flight.

"T is a few days ago, when I walked out one morn,
As the sun was just rising above the green hill ;
The pear-tree was laden, the flower hid the thorn,
And sweet was the murmuring voice of the rill.

The thrush and the linnet were joyous and gay,
The lark sweetly sung from his tent in the sky,
From the hazel's retreat burst the black-bird away,
And the fields seemed in music and beauty to vie.

But now the fair landscape hath lost its delight,
The earth is all barren, the trees are all bare,
The forest indeed wears a mantle of white,

But the voices, that cheered it, no longer are there.

Wherever I look, there are signs of decay,

I hear the winds whistle unjoyous and drear, The rills through the ice urge their desolate way, And blighting and grief mark the death of the year.

Still the sun shall return and his lamp shall be nigh, And the trees that are naked and torn by the blast, Be again green as ever, and rich in his eye,

But the year of our life is the first and the last.

Our lamp shall wax dim, and our sun shall retire,
And our bodies return to the dust of their birth;
Oh, who shall rekindle that lustreless fire,

And its beauty restore to that mouldering earth?

A sun that's eternal shall burst on the tomb,

And commence a new year to the good and the wise; His rays their dark prison shall pierce and relume, And sprinkle with splendor their path to the skies.

THE SICK CHILD.

THE sweat is standing on her brow,
The tear is beaming in her eye,
She doth not clasp her father now,
As in the happy days gone by.

Borne in her cradle of distress,

From morn to evening doth she lay;

Her little arms are powerless,

She hath no strength to run or play.

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