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136 THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.

Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears
In curls of glossy blackness, and about
Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung
Like airy shadows floating as they slept.
'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour rais'd
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said
Maiden! Arise !—and suddenly a flush
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips
And through her cheek the rallied colour ran,
And the still outline of her graceful form
Stirr'd in the linen vesture, and she clasp'd
The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes
Full on his beaming countenance-AROSE !

TO A CITY PIGEON.

Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove !

Thy daily visits have touch'd my love.
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,

And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,
And forsake the wood with its freshen’d leaves ?
Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,
When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet ?

How canst thou bear
This noise of people—this sultry air ?

Thou alone of the feather'd race
Dost look unscared on the human face ;
Thou alone, with a wing to flee,
Dost love with man in his haunts to be;

And “ the gentle dove”
Has become a name for trust and love.

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird !
Thou’rt nam’d with childhood's earliest word!
Thou’rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild
In the prison'd thoughts of the city child,

And thy glossy wings
Are its brightest image of moving things.

It is no light chance. Thou art set apart,
Wisely by Him who has tam'd thy heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair
That else were seal'd in this crowded air ;

I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.

Come then, ever, when daylight leaves The page I read, to my humble eaves, And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, And murmur thy low sweet music out !

I hear and see Lessons of Heaven, sweet bird, in thee !

ON A PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY.

“ Thou who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, readst the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind."

WORDS WORTH.

A Boy! yet in his eye you trace

The watchfulness of riper years,
And tales are in that serious face
Of feelings early steep'd in tears;

And in that tranquil gaze
There lingers many a thought unsaid,

Shadows of other days,
Whose hours with shapes of beauty came and fled.

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