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Again I join'd the playful crowd
Of boyish playmates, wild and loud;
I learnt to view with careless eye
My sable garb of misery;
No more I wept my brother's lot,
His image was almost forgot,
And ev'ry deeper shade of pain
Had vanish'd from my soul again.

The well-known morn I used to greet

With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home, and raptures sweet, In ev'ry eye, but mine, were gleaming. But I, amidst that youthful band

Of beating hearts and beaming eyes, Nor smil'd, nor spoke, at joy's command, Nor felt those wonted ecstacies.

I lov'd my home, but trembled now
To view my father's alter'd brow;
I fear'd to meet my mother's eye,
And hear her voice of agony ;
I fear'd to view my native spot,
Where he who lov'd it, now was not!
The pleasures of my home were fled,—
My brother slumber'd with the dead!

Pensive I reach'd my father's gate,

No smiling faces met me now;
I enter'd, all was desolate,—
Grief sat upon my mother's brow;
I heard her, as she kiss'd me, sigh;
A tear was in my father's eye;


My little brothers round me press'd,
In gay unthinking childhood blest ;-
Long, long, that hour is past; but when
Shall I forget the mournful scene!

The sabbath came; with mournful pace
I sought my brother's burial place;
That shrine, which when I last had view'd,
In vigour by my side he stood.

I gaz'd around with fearful eye,

All things repos'd in sanctity;

I reach'd the chancel; nought was chang'd:
The altar decently arrang'd,

white cloth above the shrine,
The consecrated bread and wine,
All was the same; I saw no trace
Of sorrow in that holy place;
One hurried glance I downward gave,—
My foot was on my brother's grave!

And years have past, and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb!
And cheerful is my mother's brow,
My father's eye has lost its gloom!
years have past; and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;

With thee he roams an infant shade,
But not more pure than thee, he died.
Blest are ye both!-your ashes rest
Beside the spot you lov'd the best;
And that dear home which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.

But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel spirits wander o'er;
O, who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality!

My boyish days are nearly gone,
My breast is not unsullied now,
And worldly cares and woes will soon

Cut their deep furrows on my brow;
And life will take a darker hue,
From ills my brother never knew;
And human passions o'er my soul
May hold their dark and fell control.
And I have made me bosom friends,

And lov'd, and link'd my heart with others; But who with mine his bosom blends,

As mine was blended with my brother's?
When years of rapture glided by,

The spring of life's unclouded weather,
Our souls were knit; -and thou and I,
My brother, grew in love together.
The chain is broke which bound us then,
When shall I find its like again!

TO MRS. S.-By her Husband.

FOR blooming health, for ease from pains,
I left my streams, I left my plains,-
Hope fledg'd my wings to roam;
But tyrant pow'r, and anxious care
Too sure had fix'd th' invidious snare,
To catch me when from home.

Ah! what had I abroad to do?
With me the peaceful olive grew,

And life's all healing baume
Contentment, on her turtle wings,
Brought joys to me unfelt by kings,

And ev'ry blessing home.

Of all thy sex, thou first, and best, Thou Virtue, by the Graces drest,

My Margaretta come;

From dissipation, doubts, and strife, To sweet retreat and tranquil life,

Oh! lead me, lead me home.

By day, by night, thy ceaseless love, As constant as the lights above,

That gild the heav'nly dome; So constant, so benign, as they, Thy influence waits with friendly ray, To guide the wand'rer home.

Oh! may the during pen of Heav'n Record the blessings it has giv'n,

In Mem'ry's faithful tome ; That life the grateful debt may pay, Each silent eve, each rising day, When safety brings me home.

Mrs. Dixon.

WHO, hapless helpless being, who

Shall strew a flower upon thy grave, Or who from mute oblivion's power Thy disregarded name shall save?

Honour, and wealth, and learning's store
The votive urn remembers long,
And e’en the annals of the poor
Live in their bard's immortal song.

But a blank stone best honours thee,

Whom sense, nor wealth, nor fame could find;

Poorer than ought beside we see,
A human form without a mind.

A casket gemless! yet for thee

Pity suspends the tender wail; For Reason shall a moral see,

While Memory paints the simple tale.

Yes! it shall paint thy humble form
Clad decent in its russet weed,
Happy in harmless wand'ring's charm
And pleased thy father's flock to feed.

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