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TO A DYING CHILD.

As tempest wreck'd, 'mid ocean waves, the seaman struggles on,

Though mountain-high the waters rise, though hope be all but gone;

Yet may one memory cheer his soul amid the breakers' roar,

The thought of that thrice blessèd home he never may see more:

The thought of all the loved, the far, to whom his life is life;

Then, then, his failing energies re-gather for the

strife,

In the life-struggle on he speeds, with strengthen'd heart and hand,

And grasps the plank which bears him on to yonder friendly strand.

Thus do I struggle hopeless all, for oh! it is in vain, Grasping at every chance that health may tint thy cheek again.

Yet it is hard, my drooping flower, to think that there can be

Nought which may glad a father's heart with brighteyed hope for thee.

For, in thy cheek, so wasted now, once like the rose's bloom

I read too well the omens sad, which tell me of thy

doom:

In thy faint voice

constant pain

thy feeble steps- the racking,

Thy patience sweet, which suffers aye, and never doth complain

Thy low, deep sigh (for us who weep), thy fix'd and thrilling gaze,

With all the fitful brightness which belongs to dying days;

I feel that hope were madness, that thy time on earth

is brief,

But tears are vain, my task is now to calm thy mother's grief.

Methinks thou wert as fair a flower as Earth hath

ever borne!

Thy cheek was radiant with the hues which tint the dewy morn—

E

Thy voice as sweet as is the tone of some dear bird

of song,

A sudden burst of melody, as we speed through life

along,

Thy bounding step was free and fleet thy lovely

form of grace,

Well suited with the beauty which adorn'd thy mind and face;

Thine eyes!-the diamond's light was nothing to their flash,

Whene'er they spoke all joyful from beneath each long dark lash:

Thou wert more like the fancy thought that fills a poet's dream,

Than aught which ever glanced across Earth's melancholy stream.

Oh, child of lovely mind and form, if thou wert not mine own,

Methinks I could have loved thee well, for thy sweet self alone.

But here, when in thy features blend thy mother's and thy sire's,

Than from thy fount of feeling springs the love which never tires.

When sweet affection, full and frank, flow'd with thy slightest word

When every lip confess'd thy worth, and every heart

adored,

When early dower'd with mental worth, thy wit surpass'd thy years;

When, never yet (till now, in grief) for thee flow'd forth our tears:

Oh gladly might a father's heart exult in such a

child,

And heaven must pardon, if it throb with anguish deep and wild.

Oh early gifted, seldom yet hath nature's hand combined

Strength or long years with such a quick maturity of mind.

The earliest flower, the ripest fruit, first withers and decays

And thus, my child, for thee is not the boon of length

of days.

Yet, oh, how bitter is the thought that gifts so rich as thine

Should for a moment cheat our hope, and then for aye decline;

What 'wildering dreams have often sprung and fancied

all thy life

Lovely, and loved, with woman's charms a bridea happy wife.

With "olive branches round about" thy happy, happy hearth,

It was a father's dream, sweet child, a fantasy of earth.

I think on all which thou hast been I view thee as

thou art

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Yet, pallid flower, far dearer now, to this afflicted heart:

The love which once it cherish'd so, still holds its primal sway,

Link'd with a tender, soft, regret above thy sad

decay:

The pride, for thee, which swell'd this heart, for all that thou hast been,

Falls chasten'd now, like fading light, upon day's dying scene.

I watch thy couch at midnight hour, when silence reigns around,

And, by my side, beloved child, another may be found:

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