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Seven years of patience, and a late consent
Won for the pair their all of hope. I saw
My sweetest sister in her honeymoon,

And then she was so pensive and so meek
That now I know there was an angel with her
That cried, Beware!

But he is gone, and all

The fondest passages of wedded life

And mutual fondling of their

progeny,

And hopes together felt, and prayers when both
Blended their precious incenses, and the wish
That they together might behold the growth
And early fruit, most holy and approved,

Of their two darlings, sinks in viewless night
And is no more.

Thus ever in this world are joy and woe;
The one before, the other hurrying after,
And "cadent tears" are ever prone to flow

In the quaint channels that are made by laughter.

Jan. 28, 1843.

AGNES.

In an old house, a country dwelling, nigh
A river, chafed by many a wave-worn stone,
A good man kept old hospitality,

With a warm purse well filled by industry
And prosperous dealings in the torrid zone.

His spouse was comely, stricken well in years;
His daughters' faces lighted all the house,
And they had tongues as well as eyes and ears.
But one there was, the youngest of the dears,
A child sedate, as still as any mouse.

Still as a little timid mouse she sat ;
And yet her stillness seemed not to be fear,
Like mouse's hiding from the whisker'd cat.
Oh no! whate'er the subject of our chat,
She seemed to drink it in with eye and ear.

I cannot

say

she had a speaking eye,

For when my eye with hers would fain converse,

She would begin her needle's task to ply,
Stirring her little fingers busily;

And, wanting work, the kitten would she nurse.

Soon as she could, she unobserved withdrew,
Determined of my purpose to defeat me.
And yet I loved her, as I always do

All pretty maids that are too young to woo,
However scurvily they choose to treat me.

Years have gone by, her worthy father dead,
And she could deem herself a child no longer.
Who can conceive what thoughts in her were
bred,

When she beheld her elder sisters wed,

And womanhood in her grew daily stronger?

Or did she feel a warning in her heart,
An inward clock, that timely struck eleven,
And said, sweet Agnes, tender as thou art,
One hour is thine; be ready to depart;

Thy spouse affianced waits for thee in heaven?

I cannot tell, for I was far away,

By what slow course of gracious discipline,
Through gradual shades of unperceived decay,
As moonlight steals on fading summer day,
Her spiritual eye was trained to light divine.

But yet I trust she never knew the woe

Of body's waste, that brings despair and dearth Unto the soul; that living death, so slow,

That leaves to those that would yet would not go, No love of heaven, but weary hate of earth.

Nay, better, loving dearly to the last
All that she ever loved, with fond delay
The latest hour before her spirit past,

Prayed yet, though feeling that her lot was cast,

Like Jesus, that the cup might pass away.

FAREWELL!

HATH the vast ocean, that strange, humorous thing,
In all its depths or perilous banks a shell

That hath matured a pearl; let Ocean bring
That pearl to thee, and like some gentle spell
Which never witch or wicked wizard muttered,
But still hath dwelt in angel heart unuttered—
Mark on the pearl the sad, sweet word, farewell!

Hath the dead earth, dead now, but once alive
In every atom,—every pore and cell

Relics of life, or fated gems that strive

To be their proper selves, and pant and swell
Towards Light, the universal mediator,
And daily witness of the one Being greater,
Hath it aught sadder, sweeter, than farewell!

And hath the air-the always gracious air-
That ever fleeting yet would gladly dwell

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