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The Child of Earth.

BY MRS. NORTON.

FAINTER her slow steps fall 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 the 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 its burning prime,-
"Oh, must this glimpse of beauty be the last
Let me not perish while, o'er land and sea,
With silent steps the Lord of light moves on;
Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee,
dull ear with music in its tone!

Greets my

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THE CHILD OF EARTH.

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 hue
Tints the ripe fruits and gilds 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, whitening fast the ground;
Autumn hath passed 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 glad and loud ;
Spare me awhile! lift up my drooping brow!
I am content to die—but oh! not now!"

The spring has come again, the joyful spring; Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread,

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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!

Sea-Weeds.

One call no not!

BY F. HEMANS.

But flowers & the

Он, call us not weeds, but flowers of the sea;
For lovely and gay and bright-tinted are we!
Our blush is as deep as the rose of thy bowers,—
Then call us not weeds; we are Ocean's gay

flowers.

Not nursed like the plants of the summer parterre,
Whose gales are but sighs of an evening air,
Our exquisite, fragile, and delicate forms
Are the prey of the Ocean, when vexed with his

storms.

"Chey that seek me early shall find me."

BY W. G. CLARKE.

COME while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery mazeCome, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, And joy's pure sunbeam trembles in thy ways; Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds unfolding,

Waken rich feelings in the careless breast,

While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding, Come, and secure interminable rest.

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowingEre the dim phantoms thou art chasing die— Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,

Fades like the crimson from a sunset ský. Life is but shadows, save a promise given, That lights the future with a fadeless ray

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Come-touch the sceptre-win a hope in heaven,
Then turn thy spirit from this world away.

Then will the shadows of this brief existence
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul—
And, shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will, of thy patient race, appear the goal;
Home of the weary, where in peace reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,

While o'er his dust the curtained grave is closing-
Who would not, EARLY, choose a lot like this!

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How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child

hood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild

wood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew;

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