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Bnt no, that look is not the last,

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past, Nor breathes that withering word-Farewell!

W. B. PEABODY.

LUCY GRAY.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green ;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

« To-night will be a stormy night
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow.”

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“ That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon-
The minster clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon !”

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time :
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town,

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

They wept—and, turning homeward, cried,
“ In heaven we all shall meet;"
When, in the snow, the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the foot-marks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

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A MOTHER'S THANKSGIVING.

And then an open field they crossed-
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there was none !

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough aud smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song,
That whistles in the wind.

WORDSWORTH.

A MOTHER'S THANKSGIVING.

Is there, in bowers of endless spring,

One known from all the seraph band By softer voice, by smile and wing,

More exquisitely bland !

A MOTHER'S THANKSGIVING.

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Here let me speed; to-day this hallowed air
Is fragrant with a mother's first and fondest

prayer.

Only let Heaven her fire impart,

No richer incense breathes on earth! “ A spouse with all a daughter's heart”

Fresh from the perilous birth, To thee, great Father, lifts her pale, glad eye, Like a reviving flower when storms are hushed

on high.

O what a treasure of sweet thought

Is here! what hope and joy and love
All in one tender bosom brought,

To the all gracious Dove
To brood o'er silently, and form for heaven
Each passionate wish and dream, to dear affec-

tion given.

Her fluttering heart, too keenly blessed,

Would sicken, but she leans on thee,
Sees thee by faith on Mary's breast,

And breathes serene and free.
Slight tremblings only of her veil declare
Soft answers duly whispered to each soothing

prayer.

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THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

We are too weak, when thou dost bless

To bear the joy,-help virgin-born ; By thine own mother's first caress

That waked thy natal morn! Help, by the unexpressive smile, that made A heaven on earth around the couch where thou

wast laid !

KEEBLE.

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

My child was beautiful and brave !

An opening flower of spring!
He moulders in a distant grave,

A cold forgotten thing.
Forgotten! ay, by all but me,
As e'en the best beloved must be-

Farewell, farewell, my dearest!

Methinks 't had been a comfort now

To have caught his parting breath-
Had I been near, from his damp brow

To wipe the dews of death-
With one long lingering kiss to close
His eyelids for the last repose-

Farewell, farewell, my dearest!

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