May time make good the omen of thy birth,
Nor worldly care thy growing thoughts immure,
Nor hard-eyed thrift usurp the throne of mirth
On thy smooth brow. And, though fast-coming years
Must bring their fated dower of maiden fears,
Of timid blushes, sighs, and fertile tears,-
Soft sorrow's sweetest offspring, and her cure,-
May every day of thine be good and holy,

And thy worst woe a pensive Sabbath melancholy!"

THE END.

JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.

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AN

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