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POEMS.

HESTER

When maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed,
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit .

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:—if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule.
Which doth the human feeling cool,
But she was train'd in Nature's school,
Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour ! gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning!

TO CHARLES LLOYD.

AN UNEXPECTED VIMTER.

Alone, obscure, without a friend,

A cheerless, solitary thing,
Why seeks, my Lloyd, the straneer out?

What offering can the stranger bring

Of social scenes, home-bred delights,
That him in aught compensate may

For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,
For loves and friendships far away?

In brief oblivion to forego

Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, And be awhile with me content

To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:

For this a gleam of random joy

Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;

And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart,
I feel the thanks I cannot speak.

Oh ! sweet are all the Muses' lays,
And sweet the charm of matin bird;

'Twas long since these estranged ears
The sweeter voice of friend had heard.

The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds

In memory's ear in after time Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,

And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.

For, when the transient charm is fled,
And when the little week is o'er,

To cheerless, friendless, solitude
When I return, as heretofore,

Long, long, within my aching heart
The grateful sense shall clierish'd be;

I'll think less meanly of myself,
That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.

THE THREE FRIENDS.

Three young maids in friendship met;

Mary, Martha, Margaret.

Margaret was tall and fair,

Martha shorter by a hair;

If the first excell'd in feature,

Th' other's grace and ease were greater;

Mary, though to rival loth,

In their best gifts equall'd both.

They a due proportion kept;

Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;

Margaret joy'd when any good

She of Martha understood;

And in sympathy for either

Mary was outdone by neither.

Thus far, for a happy space,

All three ran an equal race,

A most constant friendship proving,

Equally beloved and loving;

All their wishes, joys, the same;

Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smiled,
As upon a fav'rite child;
Well to do and well to see
Were the parents of all three;
Till on Maitha's father crosses
Brought a flood of worldly losses,
And his fortunes rich and great
Changed at once to low estate;
Under which o'erwhelming blow
Martha's mother was laid low;
She a hapless orphan left,
Of maternal care bereft.
Trouble following trouble fast,
Lay in a sick bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction
Martha now receiv'd conviction,
That a true and faithful friend
Can the surest comfort lend.
Night and day, with friendship tried,
Ever constant by her side
Was her gentle Mary found,
With a love that knew no bound;
And the solace she imparted
Saved her dying broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things
Not one good unmixed springs.
That which had to Martha proved
A sweet consolation, moved
Different feelings of regret
In the mind of Margaret.
She, whose love was not less dear,
Nor affection less sincere

To her friend, was, by occasion

Of more distant habitation,

Fewer visits forced to pay her;

When no other cause did stay her;

And her Mary living nearer,

Margaret began to fear her,

Lest her visits day by day

Martha's heart should steal away.

That whole heart she ill could spare her,

Where till now she'd been a sharer.

From this cause with grief she pined,

Till at length her health declined.

All her cheerful spirits flew,

Fast as Martha's gather'd new;

And her sickness waxed sore.

Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion Of her alter' d friend's condition, Seeing Martha's convalescence Less demanded now her presence, With a goodness, built on reason, Changed her measures with the season; Tuni'd her steps from Martha's door. Went where she was wanted more; All her care and thoughts were set Now to tend on Margaret. Mary living 'twixt the two, From her home could oft'ner go. Either of her friends to see, Than they could together be.

Truth explain'd is to suspicion
Evermore the best physician.
Soon her visits had the effect;
All that Margaret did suspect,
From her fancy vanish'd clean;
She was soon what she had been,
And the colour she did lack
To her faded cheek came back.
Wounds which love had made her feci.
Love alone had power to heal.

Martha, who the frequent visit
Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
With impatience waxtid cross,
Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
All that Mary did confer
On her friend, thought due to her.
In her girlish bosom rise
Little foolish jealousies,
Which into such rancour wrought.
She one day for Margaret sought;
Finding her by chance alone.
She began, with reasons shown,
To insinuate a fear
Whether Mary was sincere;

Wish'd that Margaret would take heed

Whence her actions did proceed.

For herself, she'd long been minded

Not with outsides to be blinded;

All that pity and compassion,

She believed was affectation;

In her heart she doubted whether

Mary cared a pin for either.

She could keep whole weeks at distance,

And not know of their existence,

While all things remaiu'd the same;

But, when some misfortune came,

Then she made a great parade

Of her sympathy and aid,—

Not that she did really grieve,

It was only malc-believe,

And she cared for nothing, so

She might her fine feelings show,

And get credit, on her part,

For a soft and tender heart.

With such speeches, smoothly made. She found methods to persuade Margaret (who being sore From the doubts shod felt before, Was prepared for mistrust) To believe her reasons just; Quito destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite, And resolve, with cruel scoff, To renounce and cast her off.

See how good turns are rewarded! She of both is now discarded, Who to both had been so late Their support in low estate, All their comfort, and their stay— Now of both is cast away. But the league her presence chcrish'd, Losing its best prop, soon perish'd; She, that was a link to either, To keep them and it together, Being gone, the two (no wonder) That were left, soon fell asunder;— Some civilities were kept, But the heart of friendship slept; Love with hollow forms was fed, But the life of love lay dead :— A cold intercourse they held. After Mary was expell'd.

Two long years did interveno
Since they'd either of them seen,
Or, by letter, any word
Of their old companion heard,—
When, upon a day once walking,
Of indifferent matters talking,
They a female figure met;
Martha said to Margaret,
"That young maid in face does carry
A resemblance strong of Mary."
Margaret, at nearer sight,
Own'd her observation right;
But they did not far proceed
Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
She—but, ah! how changed they view her
From that person which they knew her!
Her fine face disease had scarr'd,
And its matchless beauty marr'd :—.
But enough was left to trace
Mary's sweetness—Mary's grace.
When her eye did first behold them,
How they blush'd !—but, when she told them,
How on a sick bed she lay
Months, while they had kept away,
And had no inquiries made
If she were alive or dead ;—.
How, for want of a true friend,
She was brought near to her end,
, And was like so to have died,
With no friend at her bed-side ;—
How the constant irritation,
Caused by fruitless expectation
Of their coming, had extended
The illness, when she might have mended,—
Then, O then, how did reflection
Come on them with recollection!
All that she had done for them,
How it did their fault condemn!

But sweet Mary, still the same,
Kindly eased them of their shame;
Spoke to them with accents bland,
Took them friendly by the hand;
Bound them both with promise fast,
Not to speak of troubles past;
Made them on the spot declare
A new league of friendship there:
Which, without a word of strife,
Lalted thenceforth long as life.
Martha now and Margaret
Strove who most should pay the debt
Which they owed her, nor did vary
Ever after from their Mary.

TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED.

Smiling river, smiling river,

On thy bosom sun-beams play; Though they're fleeting, and retreating,

Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel,

Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones,

Deep immersed, and unhearsed,

Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening,
As thy waves against them dash;

What thy torrent, in the current,
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless

Things had feeling in this case; What so blindly, and unkindly,

It destroy'd, it now does grace.

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I Have had playmates, I have had companions. In my days of childhood, in my joyful school

clays, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting lato, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my Mend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Qhost-like I paced round the haunts of my child-
hood.
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have diod, and some they have

left me, And some are taken from mo; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

HELEN.

High-born Helen, round your dwelling
These twenty years I've paced in vain:

•Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty
Hath been to glory in his pain.

High-born Helen, proudly telling

Stories of thy cold disdain;
I starve, I die, now you comply.

And I no longer can complain.

These twenty years I've lived on tears,
Dwelling for ever on a frown;

On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;
I perish now you kind are grown.

Can I, who loved my beloved
But for the scorn "was in her eye,"

Can I be moved for my beloved,
.When she "returns me sigh for sigh?'

In stately pride, by my bed-side,
High-born Helen's portrait's hung;

Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays
Are nightly to the portrait sung.

To that I weep, nor ever sleep,
Complaining all night long to her—

Hehn, grown old, no longer cold,
Said, "You to all men I prefer."

A VISION OF REPENTANCE.

I Saw a famous fountain, in my dream,
Where shady path-ways to a valley led;

A weeping willow lay upon that stream,

And all around the fountain brink were spread

Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad.

Forming a doubtful twilight—desolate and sad.

The place was such, that whoso entered in,
Disrobed was of every earthly thought.

And straight became as one that knew not sin,
Or to the world's first innocence was brought;

Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground,

In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.

A most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite;

Long time I stood, aud longer had I staid. When lo ! I saw, saw by the sweet moon-light,

Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, Where, near the fountain, Something like DEsr.ira Made, of that weeping willow.garlands for her hair.

And eke with painful fingers she inwove
Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn—

"The willow garland, that was for her love,
And these her bleeding temples would adorn."

With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,

As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.

To whom when I addreet myself to speak,
She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;

The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek,
And, gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled

To the dark covert of that woody shade,

And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.

Revolving in my mind what this should mean, And why that lovely lady plained so;

Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene. And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,

I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,

When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound.

"Pstche am I, who love to dwell
In these brown shades, this woody dell,
Where never busy mortal came,
Till now, to pry upon my shame.

At thy feet what thou dost see
The waters of repentance bo,
Which, night and day, I must augment
With tears, like a true penitent,

If haply so my day of grace
Be not yet past; and this lone place,
O'er-shadowy, dark, excludeth hence
All thoughts but grief and penitence."

"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!
And wherefore in this barren shade
Thy hiddm thoughts with sorrow feed t
Can thing so fair repentance needf"

"O ! I have done a deed of shame,
And tainted is my virgin fame,
And stain'd the beauteous maiden white
In which my bridal robes were dight."

"And who the promised spouse I declare:
And what those bridal garments were."

"Severe and saintly righteousness
Composed the clear white bridal dress;
Jesus, the Son of Heaven's high King,
Bought with his blood the marriage ring.

A wretched sinful creature, I
Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,

Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,
And play'd the foolish wanton's part.
Soon to these murky shades I came,
To hide from the sun's light my shame.
And still I haunt this woody dell,
And bathe me in that healing well,
Whose waters clear have influence
From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;
And, night and day, I them augment,
With tears, like a true penitent,
Until, due expiation made,
And fit atonement fully paid,
The Lord and Bridegroom me present,
Where in sweet strains of high consent,
God's throne before, the Seraphim
Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."

"Now Christ restore thee soon ".—I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.

CHILD.

"O Lady, lay your costly robes aside,
No longer may you glory in your pride."

MOTHER.

Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear I
This day I am to be a bride, you know,
Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago!

cnn.D.
O mother, lay your costly robes aside,
For you may never be another's bride.
That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.

I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, Play with the bride-maids; and be glad, my boy, For thou shalt be a second father's joy.

One father fondled me upon his knee. One father is enough, alone, fur me.

QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.

On a bank with roses shaded,
Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
Violots whose breath alone
Yields but feeble smell or none,
(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on
When his eyes Olympus closed on,)

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