I see thy grateful babes caress thee; The heartless words, that thou art fair: For art not thou above such praises? O Lucy! thou art snatch'd from folly, Tho' passing apprehensions move me, So much admire thee as thou art, Wakes in my breast a pang sincere. MATILDA BETHAM. THE Rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd; The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head. The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, To weep for the buds it had left with regret I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, "And such," I exclaim'd," is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind; Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd. "This elegant Rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address May be follow'd, perhaps, by a smile." THE MANSION OF REST. I TALK'd to my fluttering heart, And husband the best of its days: The meteors that fancy had drest, I whisper'd, 't was time to retire, And seek for a Mansion of Rest. A charmer was list'ning the while, Who caught up the tone of my lay; "Oh! come then," she cried with a smile, "And Friendship shall point out your way." I follow'd the witch to her home, And vow'd to be always her guest; ," I exclaim'd, "will I roam Never more," In quest of a Mansion of Rest." But the sweetest of moments will fly, Not long was my fancy beguiled; And shortly I own'd, with a sigh, That Friendship could stab while she smiled: Yes Yes-coldly could stab the repose Of the trusting and innocent breast, And every fair avenue close That led to a Mansion of Rest. Love next urged my footsteps to stray From his bright and enamouring glance; Still in search of the phantom call'd Joy, I shrank from the beam of her eye, Where darkly the cypresses wave: Lo! that is the Mansion of Rest." THE gloomy night is gathering fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, The autumn mourns her ripening corn 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; Tho' death in every shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear : But |