gets his vows of constancy,
For bloody wars in distant lands to roam.'

As if to dash a tear, he bends his head,
And sighing, thus the weary pilgrim speaks:
'Alas! my words are few,--thy friend is dead!'--
As monumental marble pale, she shrieks,
And falls into the aged pilgrim's arms;
Who, justly filled with terror and dismay,
In speechless wonder, gazed upon her charms,
As, inwardly he seemed to curse the day.

But, slowly she revives--when, quick as light,
His cloak and wig are instantly thrown by--
And what is that that greets her 'wildered sight?
Ah! whose fond gaze now meets her longing eye?--
Her own dear Alfred, from the wars returned,
Had chosen thus to steal upon his love:--
And whilst his kisses on her cheek now burned,
He vow'd to her, he never more would rove.

THOUGHTS,

ON THE DEATH OF MY GRANDCHILD FANNY.

And all wept and bewailed her: but He said, weep not; she is not
dead, but sleepeth.

--Luke 8:52.

Oh true, "she is not dead, but sleepeth--"
Her dust alone is here;
The spirit pure that Heavenward leapeth,
Hath gone to bliss fore'er.

'Twas but a fragile flower that lent
Its sweets to earth a day;
From Heaven's parterre 'twas kindly sent,
But 'twas not here to stay.

Weep not, fond mother, that lost one;
'Tis clasped in angel's arms--
From earth's dread trials passed and gone,
'Tis decked in seraph's charms.

See how it beckons thee to come,
And taste its rapture there;--
No longer linger o'er that tomb--
To join it let's prepare.

THE DECREE.

And the king said, bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before
the king. And the king said, divide the living child in two, and
give half to the one, and half to the other. Then spake the woman
whose the living child was unto the king, for her bowels yearned
upon her son, and she said, O my lord give her the living child, and
in no wise slay it.

--I Kings 3:24-36.

Hark! did you not hear that loud shriek?
Ah! do you not see that wild eye?
List--do you hear that mother speak
For her son that is doom'd to die?

Behold the eloquence of love!
A mother for her child distress'd:
A gush of feeling from above
Invades and fills her yearning breast.

That flood of tears,--those wringing hands,
Mark her abandonment of soul,
As, list'ning to the king's commands,
Her grief refuses all control.

My child! my child!--(tho' she betray it,)