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Not willing to be left; still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide

Thro’ the dark room where I was sadly lying,
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

Oh! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness,-prone to fade,-

And bending weakly to the thunder-shower;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind !

Then Thou, my merry love ;-bold in thy glee,

Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,

Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth!

Thine was the shout! the song ! the burst of joy!

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply, Lurk’d in the laughter of thy dark blue eye!

And thine was many an art to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; The coaxing smile ;--the frequent soft caress ;

The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound.

At length thou camest; thou, the last and least;

Nicknamed “ the Emperor,” by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swell’d thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others;
Mingling with every playful infant wile
A mimic majesty that made us smile ;-

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou !

An eye of resolute and successful scheming;
Fair shoulders-curling lip—and dauntless brow-

Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreaming ;
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim,

I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either, by this love's comparing ;
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, —
But in the mother's heart found room for ALL!

THE CHILD OF EARTH.

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow; Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,

“I am content to die,—but, oh! not now !Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe; Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ;

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. Spare me, great God ! lift up my drooping brow; I am content to die,—but, oh! not now !"

The spring hath ripened into summer time;

The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime !

Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? “Let me not perish while o'er land and lea,

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on; Not while the murmur of the mountain bee

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow; I am content to die,-but, oh! not now !".

Summer is gone: and autumn's soberer hues

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,

Shouts the halloo! and winds his eager horn,
Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze

On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! Cooler the breezes play around my brow; I am content to die,—but, oh! not now!"

The bleak wind whistles : snow-showers, far and near,

Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear,

Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound: Yet still that prayer ascends. “ Oh! laughingly

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,

And the roof rings with voices light and loud :
Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die,-but, oh! not now !"

The spring is come again—the joyful spring !

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread; The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing:

The child of earth is numbered with the dead! “ Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,

Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow;
Why didst thou linger?—thou art happier now!"

SAMUEL Rogers was born in London, in the year 1762: his father was a banker,-and the Poet, it is known, follows the same profita. ble calling. His first work, an “Ode to Superstition, and other Poems,” was published in 1786. It met with considerable success; and the appearance of the “ Pleasures of Memory,” in 1792, at once established a reputation, which has continued undiminished for nearly half a century. The “Pleasures of Memory” was fol. lowed by an “ Epistle to a Friend;" " the Voyage of Columbus ;" and “ Jacqueline,” which was originally published in the same volume with Lord Byron's Lara.” This was succeeded by “ Human Life.” His last, and we think his greatest, work, "Italy,” was published in 1823. An edition of this volume, mag. nificently illustrated by a series of fine engravings, from the designs of Turner and Stothard, appeared in 1830; and, although it was at first considered that the author sought only to indulge his fancy by a large expenditure, for which he did not anticipate a return, we believe the extent of its sale has been so large, that the experiment has been exceedingly lucrative. The other “ Poems” were pub. lished on a similar plan, in 1834. The two volumes are, without exception, the most exquisite examples of embellished books which our age, so fertile in such achievements, has yet produced. They afford proof that a judicious employment of capital cannot fail to ensure success. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that the Editor of the “ Book of Gems” is indebted to Mr. Rogers for the suggestion of his work.

Mr. Rogers is now not a young man. He has preserved his fame, notwithstanding that since he obtained it so many new and vigorous competitors have started for the same goal. Portraits of him, in abundance, have been published : they all give us the outlines of a countenance strongly marked,—but not one of them supply us with the smallest notion of the shrewd and observant man, who, through nearly all his life in “populous city pent,” has looked much about him, both at home and abroad; has devoted all his leisure to the “proper study of mankind;” and whose natural talent has been matured and polished by a long intercourse with all the finer spirits of the age. Few men have been more extensively known, or more universally courted; his conversation is remarkably brilliant, and his wit pure and original.

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