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EPITAPH ON OWEN LLOYD.

COULD love devout, or longing sighs, or tears,
From God obtain a grant of lengthened years,
Then, wandering reader, thou hadst never stood
Beside the grave of one so young and good.
Still in the small but consecrated place
He spake of judgment and he spake of grace;
Of judgment dread, and merciful delay:

And latest spake of that, the latest day,

When those,-how few!-that may compare with him,

Shall mount on high with brightest seraphim!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS,

CHIEFLY LYRICAL.

PLAYFUL AND HUMOROUS PIECES.

THE BLIND MAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS LOVE.

THERE is a beauty in the mind,

That makes thee fair to me,

Sweet Mary Anne, though I am blind,

And blind I still must be.

I sit in darkness; but I know

If thou to me art near,

Through all my limbs I feel a glow,

A sudden gush of cheer.

Put thy least finger's smallest tip

Upon my wildest hair,

Each vein and nerve in me will skip,—

I know that thou art there.

They tell me thou art fair to see,

And of thy waist so trim;

I know thou art straight as poplar tree,

And delicately slim.

They tell me that thine eyes are black,

As black as burning coal :

I look, but find my eye-balls lack

The light that 's in my soul.

Thy hand is very soft I know

They tell me it is white;

But it is not like the falling snow,

Because it does not bite.

For cold and biting are the flakes,

The melting flakes of snow,

When the blinding snow-storm overtakes

The blind men as they go.

But thy hand is soft, it melts away,
And then I hear thee speak;

And ever thy words are blithe and gay.
But thy voice is smooth as thy cheek.

So well I love the thought I have,

I do not wish to see;

I will live on in my darksome cave,

So thou wilt live with me.

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