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AN ACROSTIC.

(Written in her eleventh year.)

THE MOON.

Lo! yonder rides the empress of the night!
Unveil'd she casts around her silver light;
Cease not, fair orb, thy slow majestic march,
Resume again thy seat in yon blue arch.
E'en now, as weary of the tedious way,
Thy head on ocean's bosom thou dost lay;
In his blue waves thou hid'st thy shining face,
And gloomy darkness takes its vacant place.

THE SUN.

[IN CONTINUATION.]

Darting his rays the sun now glorious rides,
And from his path fell darkness quick divides;
Vapour dissolves and shrinks at his approach.
It dares not on his blazing path encroach;
Down droops the flow'ret, - and his burning ray
Scorches the workmen o'er the new-mown hay.
Oh! lamp of Heav'n, pursue thy glorious course,
Nor till gray twilight, aught abate thy force.

HABAKKUK III, 6.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

When Cushan was mourning in solitude drear, When the curtains of Midian trembled with fear,

On the wings of salvation thy chariot did fly
Thou didst stride the wide whirlwind and come from

on high.

Earth shook, and before thee the mountains did bow;
The voice of the deep thunder'd loud from below;
Thy arrows glanced bright as they shot thro' the air,
And far gleam'd the light of thy glittering spear;
The bright orb of day paus'd in wonder on high,
And the lamp of the night stood still in the sky.

ON READING A FRAGMENT CALLED THE
FLOWER OF THE FOREST.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Sing on, sweetest songster the woodland can boast;
Sing on, for it charms, tho' it sorrows my breast;
The strains, tho' so mournful, shall never be lost,
Till this throbbing bosom has murmur'd to rest.

The sweet Flower of the Forest on memory's page
Shall bloom undecaying while life lingers near,
Unhurt by the storms which around it shall rage,
By sorrow's sigh fann'd, and bedew'd by a tear.

4

ZANTE.

(Written in her seventeenth year.)

She stood alone, 't was in that hour of thought,
When days gone by, with fading fancies fraught

h

Steal o'er the soul, and bear it back awhile,
Too sad, too heavy, or to weep or smile
O'er all life's sad variety of woe,

Which fades the cheek, and stamps upon the brow
The deep dark traces of its passage there,
In all the clouded majesty of care.

That hour was twilight; and the shade of night,
Which shuts the world and wickedness from sight,
Was walking o'er the waters, while its train
Of glittering millions danced along the main,
And Zante, that fairy island fading fast,
Seem'd first but faintly shadow'd, till at last
Tower, minaret, and turret, dimm'd by night,
Shone darkly grand, beneath Heav'n's silvery light.

And where was she, the lone one, for the sky
Had blush'd, then faded slowly to her eye-
Had deepen'd into darkness, till at last
Night's deep, broad pinion had before her pass'd;
And still she linger'd there, as noting not
The lonely breathlessness of that sad spot;
As heeding not the hour, the dreary sky,
Or aught that lay beneath her moveless eye.

She was a being form'd to love, and blest
With lavish Nature's richest loveliness.
Oh! I have often seen, in fancy's eye,
Beings too bright for dull mortality.
I've seen them in the visions of the night,
I've faintly seen them, when enough of light
And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze,
As forms of other worlds, or brighter days.

Such was Ianthe, though perhaps less bright,
Less clearly bright, for mystery and night
Hung o'er her she e'en lovelier seem'd,
More calm, more happy, when dim twilight gleam'd
Athwart the wave, than when the rude bright sun,
As though in mock'ry, o'er her sad brow shone.

There was a temple, which had stood, where then
Ianthe stood, and old and learned men
Mused o'er its ruins, marking here and there
Some porch. some altar, or some fountain, where
In other days, the towers of faith were raised,
Where victims bled, or sacred censers blazed;
There stood Ianthe, leaning on a shrine
Which rose half mournfully, from 'neath the vine,
Which as in seeming mock'ry had o'ergrown
And twin'd its tendrils round its breast of stone;
Around the ruin'd columns, shaft and step,
In undistinguish'd masses mould'ring slept,
And little dreaming of the years gone by,
Ere tyrant Time had hurl'd them from on high.
The moon emerging from the cloud more bright
The marble surface glitter d in its light;
Ianthe mark'd it - tears will sometimes steal,
From hearts which have perchance long ceas'd to

feel

She wept, and whether that cold trembling gleam
Which shone upon the column, where the beam
Fell on its brow, brought to her bleeding breast
Those gusts of sorrow, grief, despair, distress,
Or what it was I know not-but she wept
O'er the wide ruin which around her slept;

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THE YELLOW FEVER.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

The sky is pure, the clouds are light,
The moonbeams glitter cold and bright;
O'er the wide landscape breathes no sigh;
The sea reflects the star-gemm'd sky,
And every beam of Heav'n's broad brow
Glows brightly on the world below.
But ah! the wing of death is spread;
I hear the midnight murd'rers tread; -
I hear the Plague that walks at night,
I mark its pestilential blight;
I feel its hot and with'ring breath,
It is the messenger of death!
And can a scene so pure and fair
Slumber beneath a baleful air?
And can the stealing form of death
Here wither with its blighting breath?
Yes; and the slumb'rer feels its power
At midnight's dark and silent hour;
He feels the wild fire thro' his brain;
He wakes; his frame is rack'd with pain;
His eye half closed; his lip is dark;
The sword of death hath done his work;
That sallow cheek, that fever'd lip,
That eye which burns but cannot sleep,
That black parch'd tongue, that raging brain,
All mark the monarch's baleful reign!

Oh! for one pure, one balmy breath,
To cool the sufferer's brow in death;

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