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“ So he crept to his poor garret,

Poor no more, but rich and bright; For the holy dreams of childhood

Love, and Rest, and Hope, and LightFloated round the Orphan's pillow

Through the starry summer night.

Day dawned, yet the visions lasted ;

All too weak to rise he lay;
Did he dream that none spake harshly-

All were strangely kind that day?
Surely then his treasured roses

Must have charmed all ills away.

And he smiled, though they were fading;

One by one their leaves were shed; • Such bright things could never perish,

They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen

Child and flowers both were dead.

“ Know, dear little one! our Father

Will no gentle deed disdain ; Love on the cold earth beginning

Lives divine in Heaven again,

While the angel hearts that beat there

Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently

O’er his little burthen leant; While the child gazed from the shining,

Loving eyes that o'er him bent, To the blooming roses by him,

Wondering what that mystery meant.

Thus the radiant angel answered,

And with tender meaning smiled : “Ere your childlike, loving spirit,

Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek you-

I was once that little child !”

In the churchyard of that city

Rose a tomb of marble rare, Decked, as soon as Spring awakened,

With her buds and blossoms fairAnd a humble grave

beside itNo one knew who rested there.

ECHOES.

SE TILL the angel stars are shining,

Still the rippling waters flow,

But the angel-voice is silent
That I heard so long ago.
Hark! the echoes murmur low,

Long ago !

Still the wood is dim and lonely,

Still the plashing fountains play,
But the past and all its beauty,

Whither has it fled away ?
Hark! the mournful echoes say,

Fled away!

Still the bird of night complaineth,

(Now, indeed, her song is pain,) Visions of my happy hours,

Do I call and call in vain ?
Hark! the echoes cry again,

All in vain !

Cease, oh echoes, mournful echoes !

Once I loved your voices well ; Now

my

heart is sick and weary, Days of old, a long farewell ! Hark! the echoes sad and dreary

Cry farewell, farewell !

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A FALSE GENIUS.

SEE a Spirit by thy side,
Purple-winged and eagle-eyed,
Looking like a Heavenly guide.

Though he seem so bright and fair,
Ere thou trust his proffered care,
Pause a little, and beware!

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In self-worship wrapped alone, Dreaming thy poor griefs are grown More than other men have known;

Dwelling in some cloudy sphere, Though God's work is waiting here, And God deigneth to be near;

If his torch's crimson glare
Show thee evil everywhere,
Tainting all the wholesome air;

While with strange distorted choice,
Still disdaining to rejoice,
Thou wilt hear a wailing voice;

If a simple, humble heart,
Seem to thee a meaner part,
Than thy noblest aim and art;

If he bid thee bow before
Crowned Mind and nothing more,
The great idol men adore;

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