Of truth, which God's own hand hath testified.
Sweet Eve! whom poets sing to as a bride,
Queen of the quiet-Eden of Time's bright map—
Thy look allures me from my hush'd fireside,
And sharp leaves rustling at my casement tap,
And beckon forth my mind to dream upon thy lap!
THE DYING CHILD.
"OH mother, what brings music here?
Now listen to the song-
So soft, so sweet, so beautiful—
The night-winds bear along!”
"My child, I only hear the wind,
As with a mournful sound
It wanders 'mid the old oak trees,
And strews their leaves around."
And dimmer grew his heavy eyes,
His face more deadly fair,
And down dropp'd from his infant hand
His book of infant prayer.
"I know it now, my mother dear;
That song for me is giv'n:
It is the angels' choral hymn
That welcomes me to heav'n.”
G. DENNIS, PRINTER, COLCHESTER.