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But still in upright deeds appearing,
Yet oh!'whate'er my many faults have been, No other comfort would it borrow;
Though I at times bave play'd the trifler's partRepeated shocks far failed in searing,
Conscience, still whispers, ’mid each varied Or binding up the “Heart of Sorrow.”
“ They were the errors of the head, not heart." It keew bo pride, bat pride of soulA pride which even angels love;
THE BIRTH OF POESY.
BY MISS MARY LEMAN REDE.
RAMBLING on a summer's day,
Little Cupid lost his way Still -ob! still-devoid of fearing,
In a thicket's silent shade, Boldly beats tbis “Heart of Sorrow.”
Where roses blush'd, and fountains play'd.
He wander'd op'and down, and round, It beat-sMiction long bad worn
It seem'd to him like fairy ground; Those tender strings wbich health impart, For nature, in her bappiest bours, And many a brutal band had torn
Had rais'd the rose-embosom’d bowers, The reeking ruins of that beart.
With gay luxuriance, wild and sweet, Aod most the string of baggard Care,
The canopying branches meet ;
The winding waters, bright and clear,
Melodiously meet his ear ;
The flowers from nature's hand seem new, Inflicting wounds past ever bealing :
Just blooming in their earliest hue, It twang'd-and then it trembled cver.
And spangl’d with the morning dew. It beat-for ev'ry silken vein
So sweet a spot his fancy captur'd, Rent, where'er the arrow flew;
He found his little beart enraptur’d. Its finest chords respons'd the strain
Cytherea's groves no fragrance knew, Which Discord set, and Malice drew :
More sweet than here aronnd bim flew. For then its strings were loosen'd all,
“ Who owns ibis paradise ?” he cried, As wither'd leaves in agtuinn fall.
For not a form he'd yet espy'd, Bnt Hope still whisper'd (woe forgetting)
And not an echo, far or near, “ The sun of joy may rise to-morrow;
Came murmuring on his list’ning ear; " Its cheering beams, tho' now tbe're setting,
Nought but the gently floating breeze, " Will get light up that “ Heart of Sorrow."
That shook the fragrance from the trees
Nought but the silv'ry fountains playing,
The bubbling rill a-down hill straying.
Still more enamour'd Cupid grew;
“ To gain this little heavenly spot By Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson, author of | (He clasp'd his hands, with sparkling eyes) “ Melancholy Hours,” and “ Astarte."
16 I would for ever quit the skies !” When my thoughts dwell opon the fleeting year,
And yet, perchance, he might not win it, That in an hour will pass for ever by ;
What place was it? who liv'd in it? Mem'ry, fond mem'ry, wakens many a tear,
He thought of all the Gods he knew, And my breast swells with many a pensive sigh.
But then he knew their dwellings too. I do not kneel before the sainted shrine
“ This charming spot must surely be, With rain professions only sworn to break;
“ By gracious Jove reserv'd for me !" Since well I know this erring heart of mine,
At lengib, upon a flow'ry bank, Is all too weak, with truth, such vows to make!
Little Love in slumber sank
But his presence, blandly bright,
And all around the God confest.
The rose more gay its bosom spread,
The graceful lily rais'd its head This was the snare, the spell that did deceive,
E'en the daisy's slender stem, And led my wand'ring heart astray aw bile ;
Rose erect with its ljulle gem. Till soon I found Fancy but lures to leave
Beauty's brightest glow was flushing, The ruin'd wretch, thai banquets on her smile;
Thro' founts and flowers bright and blushing.
Solitude, who swiftly stept, Nor rous'd the timid hare that slept Securely in the sylvan groves, Where the lonely damsel roves, Soft advancing, gain'd the shade, Where slumb'ring Cupid sweetly laid. Surpris'd, she paus'd, and sparkling joy Stole to her eyes as she view'd the boy; For ne'er did glowing fancy trace So much beanty, so much grace. The eye of sonl and fire was elos'd, But the transparent lid repos'd, With silken lash, so long, so bright, It could but veil a heavenly light. The ringlets of his radiant hair, Wav'd playful o'er his forehead fair ; Descending to a neck of snow, Where faintly blue the clear veins flow; And such a blush suffus’d his cheeks, As bright Aurora's rise bespeaks And deep’ning on his lovely lips, Sweet in her dew their softness dips. His beauty innocence united, Timid Solitude delighted; And softly on her knee descending, Gazing on him, o'er him bending, From her velvet lip of dew, O'er Cupid's cheek a warm sigh flew: Tho' breath'd so soft, it wak'd the God, Who, springing from the flow'ry sod, Pursu'd tbe fair affrighted maid, Who swiftly sought the inmost shade. O'ertaken-Cupid's charms and art, Won her young unpractis'd beart; And laughing at her vain alarms, She suok into his rosy arms Avowing, had she paus’d to view Those radiant eyes of beavenly bue, They had deny'd her power of light, And fear had ied in mute delight. From this union sprang a child, Like her father, fair and wild ; Nurs'd by Fancy and the Nine, She early caught the spark divine. They early taught the little fair, To pour the gay and tender air; And soon so well she touch'd the lyre, As would transport her list’ning sireHe would cry, entranc'd with pleausure, “Wake, oh! wake, that flowing measure“ Worthy love, and worthy thee, “ Sing my little Poesy !" And often when, on wandering bent, Thoughtless Cupid rambling went, She learn'd a soft and plaintive air, To soothe her lonely mother's care. Thus her little song would flow, In sympathy with joy or woe. But tho' she lor'd to pour the song, Her mother's sylvan shades among Beneath the pale and moonlight beam, To wander by the winding stream; Or rising with the blush of dawn, To catch the glories of the morn
To call the sweetest, wildest flowers,
THE REPLY. WHAT Seraph's voice now bids me cease All further murm'ring? whispers Peace : “ No more, presumptuous youth, repine, “ But meekly bow to pow'r divine.” 'Tis one who ne'er hath sorrow known, Whose days in perfect bliss have flownWhose spring of life, serenely bright, Glides on in pure and calm delightOf all that Heav'n can give possest, With beauty, health, and talents blest. Who talks of friendship, soothing smile, And would my sorrow thus beguile? 'Tis one who ne'er hath felt the sting That treach'ry and deceit can bringWho ne'er hath felt the mildew blight, On all her fondest hopes alight. A tale I could I would unfold, But 'tis a tale must ne'er be told : Had'st thou been 'reft of all that's dear, Borne all that I have borne, I fear Thou, too, would'st murmur, and, with cause, Complain of fate's unequal laws.