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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
Upon my evening solitude,
When fasth 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 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,
În - entering at the narrow door
Shall báthe in bliss for evermore
Upón a safe and stormless shore.

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

SÁTURDÁY clothed in plain drúgget
And with care and hard work wórn out,
Háppened once to meet her idle
Sister Sunday in her sátins: –

“I'm so glád to meet you, sister,"
Saturdáy in húmble tóne said,
“Fór I know you 're ténderheárted
And will lend a hánd to help me.

“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 put your hand to, sister;
Éxercise you know is wholesome
Ảnd a sovereign cúre for énnui

're looking dúll and lánguid.”

“Nothing would so much delight me,"
Ånswered Súnday with a simper,
“Ás in any way ť oblige you,

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
Ảnd with nó work soil my fingers.

“Ánd even wére I, whích I am not,
Óf myself inclined to lábor,
Gód's commandment is explícit:
“My seventh child shall dó no lábor'.”

“Gód's seventh child! why, thát 's myself,” said Saturday laying down her rúbber; “Whát a fool I've been to work so! Bút in future f 'll be wiser.

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

“Nów you 've lét by chance the truth out,
It's the seventh child is exémpted
Take the scrúbber; on your knees down;
Í 'll dress fine and pray and idle.”

“Yoú 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
Heáven or earth could not endúre it,
Ánd your birthright was taken from you
Ánd bestowed upon your bétters.”

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

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

« Lét her háve it,' óne and all cried ;
‘Privilége was ever ódions;
Lét her háve it, make the most of it;
Cóme, dear Saturdáy, with ús work.'

“I obeyed; you took my títle;
Called yourself God's Hóly Sábbath,
Dressed in satin, prayed and idled,
And grew every day more saúcy,

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

“Till at lást the whole world hates you,
Fears you nó less than despines,
Cálls you in plain térms impóstor,
Foúl usúrper óf my birthright.”

“Véry fine talk fór my lády
Dówagér Profáni Prócul;
Whý! it 's not my likeness, síster,
Bút your own you have been drawing;

“Faithful from your mémory dráwing, ás

you were while you reigned mistress And

your flátterers lów before you Bówed and kissed the hém of your gárment.

“Whó was 't thén was óverbeáring ?
Whó was 't thén was súpercilious ?
Who was 't thén was vain and sélfish,
Céremónious and religious ?

“And if nów you ’ré something wiser,
Sómething more discreet and módest,
Léss encroaching, sánctimónious,
Phárisáical and exclusive,

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

Súch the Billingsgáte the sisters
Flúng and reflung at each other;
Whích aimed bést and hít the hårdest,
Júdge, for Í can't, pátient reader.



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