Was in her cradle-coffin lying; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut For the long dark: ne'er more to see Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? Shall we say, that Nature blind Checked her hand, and changed her mind, Or lacked she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sickened) That should thy little limbs have quickened? Limbs so firm, they seemed to assure Life of health and days mature: So in mercy left the stock, And cut the branch; to save the shock And wisest clerks have missed the mark, That has his day; while shrivelled crones Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou wantest not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Why should kings and nobles have THE CHRISTENING. ARRAYED—a half-angelic sight- From every stain of Adam' sin. And now he smiles, as if to say "I am a Christian made this day;" Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold, Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. Strange words-The World, the Flesh, the DevilPoor Babe, what can it know of Evil? But we must silently adore Mysterious truths, and not explore. And more and more will strive to flee All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me." THE YOUNG CATECHIST.* WHILE this tawny Ethiop prayeth,. * A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq. Is she of the Heaven-born Three, Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity; Or some Cherub? They you mention Far transcend my weak invention. 'Tis a simple Christian child, Missionary young and mild, From her stock of Scriptural knowledge, Bible-taught without a college, Which by reading she could gather, Colour not respects, nor hue. White and black in Him have part, Who looks not to the skin, but heart. TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTH-DAY. CROWN me a cheerful goblet, while I pray A blessing on thy years, young Isola; To me thy girlish times, a woman grown |