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Art thou deserted then,
Wildered and lone?

Come to my breast again,
Beautiful one.

Here in the rosy beds

Hover anew:
Eating the garden seeds,
Sipping the dew:
Then in my bower

The fragrance inhale

Of each lovely flower

That waves in the gale.

When the bright morning-star,

Rising on high,

Day's early harbinger,

Shines in the sky,

Then shall thy numbers,
So lively and gay,
Rouse me from slumbers,
To welcome the day.

When the still evening comes,

Tranquil and clear;

When the dull beetle roams,

Drumming the air;

Then, on the willow-trees

Shading the door,

Sing me thy melodies

Over once more.

Thus shall the moments fly
Sweetly along,

Tuned to thy minstrelsy,

Cheered by thy song;

Till as the light declines

Far in the west,

Thou mid the trellised vines,

Hush thee to rest.

OLD GRIMES.

BY CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN.

OLD Grimes is dead, that good old man,
We ne'er shall see him more;
He used to wear a long black coat
All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day

His feelings all were true-
His hair was some inclined to gray;
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,

His heart with pity burned-
The large round head upon his cane
From ivory was turned.

And ever prompt at pity's call,

He knew no base design

His eyes were dark and rather small; His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind—
In friendship he was true-
His coat had pocket holes behind-
His pantaloons were blue.
Unharmed the sin which earth pollutes
He passed securely o'er-
He never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown-
He wore a double-breasted vest,
The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert-

He had no malice in his mind-
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbours he did not abuse,
Was sociable and gay-

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view-

Nor make a noise town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw

In trust to fortune's chances-
He lived, as all his brothers do,
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran-
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.

OLD MRS. GRIMES.

BY A. G. GREENE.

OLD Mrs. Grimes is living still,
A widow still is she;

She wears a neat old-fashioned frock,
A neater ne'er can be.

She's blest at home-nor seeks abroad

The scandals of the town;

There's not enough put in her sleeves To make another gown.

Although she's poor, the needy poor's
Hard wants she will appease;
Her dress it never drags the ground,
Nor sets above her knees.

She every Sunday goes to church,
Nor sleeps nor chatters there;
Her caps are of the plainest kind,
Save one for Sunday's wear.

She often says "she hopes above,
To meet her husband dear:"
She rents a cot at fifteen pounds,
And pays it every year.

She always was industrious,

And rises now betimes;

She's called by all the neighbours round, "The Good Old Mrs. Grimes."

"FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER."

BY MRS. FOLLEN.

"FLOW on, thou shining river,"

Flow gaily to the sea;

Flow on in beauty ever,
With all thy melody.

Where has thy gentle current strayed?
Teach all thy joyous tale to me;
Let it flow on through light and shade;
My song shall follow thee.

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