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EVENING ODE,

ADAPTED TO THE PSYCHOLOGICAL AND POETICAL TASTE OF THE AGE.

Hárk! 'tis the meditative hour
When the soul feels in all their power
Its aspirations heavenward rise
Dráwing it gently toward the skies
And high angelic colloquies.

Welcome! sweet hour of rest and calm,
That bring'st the wounded spirit balm,
That, mild as thine own pensive star,
Stillest the breast's intestine war,
And bídd'st the passions cease to jar.

Let nó unhallowed thought intrude
Upón my evening solitude,
When faith and hope with taper bright
Scattering the darkness of the night
Shed áll around extatic light,

Pointing to realms of bliss above,
Régions of innocence and love,
Where never breast shall heave a sigh,
Where never tear shall dim the eye,
Where none are born and none shall die;

Where spirits, that here lived in pain
Drágging their sordid earthly chain,
În - entering at the narrow door
Shall bathe in bliss for evermore
Upón a safe and stormless shore.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), Febr. 9, 1855.

SATURDAY clothed in plain drúgget
And with care and hard work worn out,
Háppened once to méét her idle
Sister Sunday in her sátins :

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“From before daylight this morning
Í 've been washing úp and scrúbbing,
Brúshing, dústing, régulating,
Till I 've not a bóne but 's aching.

“Cóme, do pút your hand to, sister;
Éxercise you know is wholesome
Ånd a sóvereign cúre for énnui
Ánd you 're looking dúll and lánguid.”

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“Nothing would so much delight me,”
Answered Súnday with a símper,
“Ás in any way ť oblige you,
Ór

your heávy búrden lighten;

“Bút I need not tell you, sister,
Hów I make 't a point of conscience
Tó live álways like a lády
Ånd with nó work soil my fingers.

“Ánd even wére I, which I am not,
óf mysélf inclined to lábor,
Gód's commándment is explícit:
My seventh child shall dó no lábor'."

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“Gód's seventh child! why, that 's mysélf,” said
Saturdáy laying down her rúbber;
“Whát a foól I 've been to work so!
Bút in future Í 'll be wiser.

“Hów came yoú so long to insist on 't
'Twas the first child was exémpted,
And make your six younger sisters
Wórk, to keep you like a lády?

“Nów you ’ve lét by chance the truth out,
It is the séventh child ís exémpted
Táke the scrúbber; on your kneés down;
Í 'll dress fine and pray and idle."

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“You had once your túrn,” said Sunday,
“The seventh child once wás: exémpted,
And I worked just as you now do,
Í and your five élder sisters;

“Bút you grew so proud and saúcy
Heaven or earth could not endúre it,
Ánd your birthright was taken from you
Ánd bestowed upon your bétters.”

“Í remémber wéll the robbery
Ánd the liés to jústify it;
Ánd how, not t expose the fámily,
Í put úp with 't and said nothing.

“I remember toó, my sisters,
When they advised me to keep quiet,
Próphesiéd you 'd soon grow proúder,
Saúcier fár than ever Í was.

“? Lét her háve it,' óne and áll cried; 'Prívilége was ever ódious; Lét her háve it, make the most of it; Cóme, dear Saturdáy, with ús work.'

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“Í obeyed; you took my títle;
Called yourself God's Hóly Sábbath,
Dressed in sátin, prayed and idled,
Ảnd grew every dáy more saúcy,

“Móre hardhearted, vain and sélfish,
Móre intolerant, súpercilious,
Hypocrítical, óverbearing,
Céremónious and religious,

“Till at lást the whole world hátes you, Fears you nó less than despines, Calls you

in plain térms impóstor, Foúl usúrper of my bírthright.”

“Véry fine talk fór my lády
Dowager Profáni Prócul;
Whý! it 's not my líkeness, sister,
Bút your own you háve been dráwing;

“Faithful from your mémory dráwing, Ás

you were while yoú reigned mistress Ảnd your flátterers low before you Bówed and kissed the hém of your gárment.

“Who was 't thén was óverbearing ?
Whó was 't thén was súpercilious ?
Whó was 't thén was vain and selfish,
Céremónious and religious ?

“Ánd if now you 're something wiser,
Something more discreet and módest,
Less encroaching, sánctimónious,
Phárisáical and exclusive,

“í 'm to thánk for 't, who have taught you
Thát 'twasn't you your flátterers cared for,
Bút to have something to flatter,
Ány idol tó bow dówn to.”

Súch the Billingsgáte the sisters
Flúng and réflung at each other;
Which aimed best and hit the hardest,
Júdge, for Í can't, patient reader.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), Dec. 25, 1854.

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