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EVENING ODE,

ADAPTED TO THE PSYCHOLOGICAL AND POETICAL TASTE OF THE AGE.

HARK! 'tis the meditative hour

When the soul feels in all their power

Its aspirations heavenward rise

Drawing 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 bidd'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 all around extatic light,

Pointing to realms of bliss above,
Régions of innocence and love,

Where never breast shall heave a sigh,

Where néver 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,
Ín-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 cáre and hárd work wórn out,
Happened once to méét her idle
Sister Súnday in her sátins:

"I'm so glad to meet you, sister,"
Sáturday in húmble tóne said,
"Fór I knów you 're ténderhearted
Ánd will lend a hand to help me.

"Fróm before daylight this morning
Í 've been washing up and scrúbbing,
Brúshing, dústing, réguláting,

Till I've nót a bóne but 's aching.

"Cóme, do pút your hand to, sister; Éxercise you knów is wholesome

Ánd a sóvereign cúre for énnui

And you 're looking dúll and lánguid.”

"Nóthing would so múch delíght me,"
Answered Súnday with a símper,
"Ás in any way ť oblige you,
Ór your heavy búrden lighten;

"Bút I need not tell you, sister, Hów I make 't a point of conscience Tó live always like a lády

Ánd with nó work soil my fingers.

"Ánd even wére I, which I am not, Óf myself inclined to lábor,

God's commandment is explícit:

'My seventh child shall dó no lábor'."

"God's seventh child! why, thát 's myself," said Saturday laying down her rúbber;

"Whát a foól I 've been to wórk so!

Bút in future I'll be wiser.

"Hów came you so lóng to insist on 't "Twas the first child wás exémpted, Ánd make your six younger sisters Work, to keep you like a lády?

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"Nów you 've lét by chánce the trúth out,
It's the seventh child is exémpted
Take the scrúbber; ón your knees down;
Í 'll dress fine and pray and idle.”

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

*

"Bút you grew so proúd and saúcy

Heaven or earth could nót endúre it,
Ánd your birthright was taken from you
Ánd bestówed upón your bétters."

"Í remember wéll the robbery
Ánd the liés to justify it;

Ánd how, nót t' expose the family,
Í put up with 't and said nothing.

"Í remember toó, my sisters,

When they advised me to keep quiet,
Próphesied you 'd soón grow proúder,
Saúcier får than ever I was.

""Lét her háve it,' óne and áll cried; 'Privilége was éver ódious;

Lét her have it, máke the most of it; Cóme, dear Sáturday, with ús work.'

"I obeyed; you took my title;
Called yourself God's Hóly Sábbath,
Dréssed in sátin, prayed and idled,
Ánd grew évery day more saúcy,

"Móre hardhearted, vain and sélfish, Móre intolerant, súpercilious,

Hypocrítical, overbearing,

Céremónious and religious,

"Till at lást the whole world hátes you,

Fears you no less thán despíses,

Cálls you in plain térms impóstor,

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"Véry fine talk fór my lády
Dówagér Profáni Prócul;

Why! it's not my likeness, sister,
Bút your own you have been drawing;

"Faithful from your mémory drawing, Ás you were while you reigned mistress Ánd your flátterers lów before you

Bówed and kissed the hém of your garment.

"Who was 't then was óverbearing?

Who was 't thén was súpercilious?

Who was 't then was vain and selfish,
Céremónious and religious?

"Ánd if nów you 're something wiser,
Sómething more discreet and módest,
Léss encroaching, sánctimonious,
Phárisáical and exclusive,

"I'm to thank for 't, whó have taught you Thát ’twasnt you your flátterers cared for, Bút to have something to flatter,

Ány idol to bow down to."

Súch the Billingsgáte the sisters

Flúng and réflung át each other;
Which aimed bést and hit the hárdest,
Júdge, for I can't, patient reáder.

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

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