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I'd shun the sparkling, fatal bowl,
Where adders lurk to sting the soul;
Would woo fair Virtue, drink her breath,
Nor cease to love her, e'en till death.

TO MY FLUTE.

DEAR Flute,-companion of my youth,-
Source of delight, from treachery clear;

Rest by my side, fair child of truth,

Nought shall molest thee while I'm near.

With fond eyes let me gaze on thee,
My true, my long-tried, faithful friend;
By all should I forsaken be,

My Flute a cheering voice will lend.

If sorrow sometimes wounds my heart,
While floating o'er "life's troubled sea,”
Thy liquid tones can heal the smart,
Thy "melting murmurs" comfort me.

The woods in my own native land,

Have echoed back, "My Heart and Lute;"

As oft by summer breezes fan'd

I've sat, communing with my Flute.

I've roam'd o'er ocean-wave with thee,

When lightnings flashed, and all was drear;

And there-e'en on the foaming sea,

Thy silvery tones were doubly dear,

In orange groves, and spicy bowers,
With thee I've lingered, gentle Flute;
Drank the pure breath of "honied flowers,”
Where all, save birds and thee, was mute.

O, I have prov'd thee every where,

A soothing, ever constant friend ;Yet, 'mid earth's scenes of noise and care, How few their lone hours with thee spend.

When from this tenement so frail,

Shall soar my spirit far away; Could'st thou, dear Flute, my loss bewail, Methinks thoud'st weep each lonely day.

Oh, cease to breathe of spirits fled,

That lov'd thy "stilly night," to hear;
My thoughts will wander with the dead,
Those spirits to my heart so dear.*

But look not sad, oh, magic Flute !
Though importuned to hush awhile;

I could not wish thee long be mute,

When thou can'st raise the cheerful smile.

Then, "Dorian Flute," thine aid impart,

To dry thy master's tearful eye; Lend inspiration to his heart,

Dispel each fear and painful sigh.

*My two only brothers.

MORNING IN SUMMER.

"Sleeper come forth, the Sun is up."

AWAKE! arise! the morning dawns,
O'er glassy lakes, and on the velvet lawns ;-
No longer sleep," the hills are bathed in gold,”
And warbling birds their happy tales unfold.

The Shepherd's up, and sings in joyful strains,
While, with his flock, he hies o'er grassy plains.
The verdant hills and valleys glow with life,
And waving trees are all with beauty rife.

The dreaming flowers are breathing on the air,
And those who will may quaff their fragrance rare.
On golden wings comes in the blushing morn,
While zephyrs soft play through the waving corn.

The feathered minstrels soar on airy wing,
With harp-strings tuned, and sweetly do they sing.
There's health in every breeze,—the morn is fair,
Up and go forth to taste the balmy air!

Dream if thou must, upon the languid bed,
Then rise and sigh that dewy morn has fled.
Sleep if thou wilt, and dose away thine hours,
I'll to the fields, and sip the breath of flowers.

3

*

THE MOTHER, FOR HER LOST ONE.

DURING a long passage up the Mississippi river, in the spring of 1838, many passengers on board the steamboat were taken sick with small pox; and among the deaths was a beautiful child, whose young mother was obliged to have it torn from her and buried in a rough box near the side of a hill on the banks of the river near St. Louis. Fancy heard her tones of grief, thus:

1

There is a mound beside yon hill,

And 'neath its steady gloom
My darling boy is cold and still,
In his dark narrow tomb.

The song-birds chant a requiem by,
Where sleeps the infant one;
And voices oft-times whisper nigh,

"He was her idol son."

No more can smile the happy boy,
Upon his mother's knee;

No more his little heart will joy,
Earth's flow'rets bright to see.

Thou know'st, oh Father kind, above,
How keen the pangs I bear;

To lose the jewel of my love,

And treasure of my care.

My heart must breathe its burning grief,
For the stellar gem that's fled.
Where may I seek and find relief,
Now my sweet boy is dead?

Yes, near the side of yon dark hill,
Slumbers my blue-eyed dove.

I earnest hope, I earnest pray,
To meet mine own above.

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