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Forth trips a laughing dark-eyed lass,
To intercept us as we pass;.

Upon your right hand let her look,
And there she'll read, as in a book,
Your future fortune; and reveal
The joy or wo you're doomed to feel:
Your course of love she will unfold,
If you the picture dare behold!

THE FIRST GRAY HAIR.

THE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow,
Sits gazing on her lovely face,-ay, lovely even now;

Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care? Why steals that tear across her cheek? she sees her first gray hair.

Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace; His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face; Yet she might mingle in the dance, where maidens gaily trip,

So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.

The faded form is often marked by sorrow more than

years,―

The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret

tears;

The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest, And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest.

But she hath been a happy wife: the lover of her youth May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth;

A sense of slight,-of loneliness,-hath never banished

sleep:

Her life hath been a cloudless one; then wherefore doth she

weep?

She looked upon her raven locks, what thoughts did they

recall?

Oh! not of nights when they were decked for banquet or for

ball;

They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to check,

With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.

She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through

her hair,

And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there; She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel the playful

touch

That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls she prized so much.

And now she sees her first gray hair! oh, deem it not a crime For her to weep, when she beholds the first footmark of Time! She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase,

And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall

cease.

'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane;

Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom again—
It cannot but remember, with a feeling of regret,
The spring for ever gone,—the summer sun so nearly set.

Ah, lady! heed the monitor! thy mirror tells thee truth; Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth:

Go! bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look

fair

"Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first gray

hair!

THE NEGLECTED CHILD.

I NEVER was a favourite,—
My mother never smiled

On me, with half the tenderness

That blessed her fairer child:
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;
I've turned away, to hide my tears,-
There was no kiss for me!

And yet I strove to please with all
My little store of sense;

I strove to please,-and infancy
Can rarely give offence:
But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,

I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck!

How blessed are the beautiful!

Love watches o'er their birth;

Oh, beauty! in my nursery

I learned to know thy worth:

For even there I often felt

Forsaken and forlorn;

And wished-for others wished it too

I never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate;

But in my sister's face

There was a look of love, that claimed
A smile or an embrace:

But when I raised my lip to meet
The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart,—
They spoke not in my eyes.

But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;

I saw my sister's lovely form

With gems and roses decked:

I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,

I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came,—
A time of sorrow too;

For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venomed mantle threw;

The features, once so beautiful,

Now wore the hue of death; And former friends shrank fearfully From her infectious breath.

'Twas then, unwearied day and night,
I watched beside her bed;

And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillowed her poor head.

She lived!-and loved me for my care,

My grief was at an end;

I was a lonely being once,

But now I have a friend.

UPON THY TRUTH RELYING.

THEY say we are too young to love,—
Too wild to be united;

In scorn they bid us both renounce

The fond vows we have plighted.
They send thee forth to see the world,
Thy love by absence trying:
Then go; for I can smile farewell,—
Upon thy truth relying.

I know that Pleasure's hand will throw
Her silken nets about thee;

I know how lonesome I shall find
The long, long days without thee.
But in thy letters there'll be joy;
The reading,-the replying:

I'll kiss each word that's traced by thee,-
Upon thy truth relying.

When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by,

In silent rapture gazing;

And, oh! how proud of being loved

By her they have been praising!

But should Detraction breathe thy name,
The world's reproof defying:

I'd love thee,-laud thee,-trust thee still,-
Upon thy truth relying.

E'en those who smile to see us part,

Shall see us meet with wonder; Such trials only make the heart

That truly loves grow fonder.

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