bow.
Or when, in Fall, the woak do shed
The leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head,
An' western win's, a-blowen cool,
Do dreve em out athirt the pool,
Or Winter's clouds do gather dark
An' wet, wi' rain, the elem's bark,
You'll zee his pretty smile betwixt
His little sheaede-mark'd lips a-fix'd;
As there his little sheaepe do bide
Drough day an' night, an' time an' tide,
An' never change his size or dress,
Nor overgrow his prettiness.
But, oh! thik child, that we do vind
In childhood still, do call to mind
A little bwoy a-call'd by death,
Long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th;
An' I, in thought, can zee en dim
The seaeme in feaece, the seaeme in lim',
My heaeir mid whiten as the snow,
My limbs grow weak, my step wear slow,
My droopen head mid slowly vall
Above the han'-staff's glossy ball,
An' yeet, vor all a wid'nen span
Ov years, mid change a liven man,
My little child do still appear
To me wi' all his childhood's gear,
'Ithout a beard upon his chin,
'Ithout a wrinkle in his skin,
A-liven on, a child the seaeme
In look, an' sheaepe, an' size, an' neaeme.

THE YOUNG THAT DIED IN BEAUTY.

If souls should only sheen so bright
In heaven as in e'thly light,
An' nothen better wer the ceaese,
How comely still, in sheaepe an' feaece,
Would many reach thik happy pleaece,--
The hopeful souls that in their prime
Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time--
The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth
A-tweilen drough a lifetime's langth,
An' over cheaeks a-growen wold
The slowly-weaesten years ha' rolled,
The deep'nen wrinkle's hollow vwold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
On young vo'ks in their beauty.

But pinen souls, wi' heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi' a child a-vled,
The husband when his bride ha' laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.

An' yeet the church, where prayer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes.
An' village greens, a-beaet half beaere
By dancers that do meet, an' weaer
Such merry looks at feaest an' feaeir,
Do gather under leatest skies,
Their bloomen cheaeks an' sparklen eyes,
Though young ha' died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than k