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[From Woodworth's Poems.]

LET Fame her wreath for others twine,
The fragrant Wreath of Love be mine,
With balm-distilling blossoms wove;
Let the shrill trumpet's hoarse alarms
Bid laurels grace the victor's arms,

Where Havoc's blood-stain'd banners move: Be mine to wake the softer notes,

Where Acidalia's banner floats,

And wear the gentler Wreath of Love.

The balmy rese let stoics scorn;
Let squeamish mortals dread the thorn,
And fear the pleasing pain to prove ;
I'll fearless bind it to my heart,
While ev'ry pang its thorns impart,
The flowret's balsam shall remove :
For, sweeten'd by the nectar'd kiss,
'Tis pain that gives a zest to bliss,

And freshens still the Wreath of Love.

Give me contentment, peace, and health,
A moderate share of worldly wealth,

And friends, such blessings to improve;

A heart to give when mis'ry pleads,

To heal each rankling wound that bleeds
And ev'ry mental pain remove:

But with these give-else all deny
The fair, for whom I breathe the sigh;
And wedlock be a Wreath of Love.

Connubial bliss unknown to strife,
A faithful friend, a virtuous wife,

Be mine for many years to prove :
Our wishes one, within each breast
The dove of peace shall make her nest,
Nor ever from the ark remove;
Till call'd to heaven; through ages there,
Be ours the blissful lot to wear
A never fading Wreath of Love.


Upon seeing an Infant asleep in its Mother's arms.

[From Dr. Farmer's Poems.]

SLEEP on, no cares thy couch molest,

No terrors yet alarm;

Now, little stranger, thou art blest,
Thine empire, is a mother's breast,

Thy shield-a father's arm.

The early rosebud hid in leaves,
That form for it a fragrant bower,
In stormy nights no ill receives,

But woe awaits the full-blown flower.
Sleep on-no worldly blight is near,
Sleep on, secure from danger;
I whisper to thee with a tear,
Thou knowest all the bliss that's here,

To woe alone a stranger.

May He that shelters the distrest,
Secure thy soul from guile;
And may'st thou ever sleep to rest,
And ever wake to smile.


[From Dr. Farmer's Poems.]

I NEVER hear thy trembling string,
Its wild, its mournful notes prolong,
That fancy does not quickly bring

To mind, some bard of early song:
For once like thee his magic tale

In music's wildest lore was drest,
When sorrow bid his numbers wail,

Or hope delusive soothed his breast;

But now-he wants the zephyr's breath,
That hovers o'er thy trembling wire ;
That poet's voice is still'd by death,

And cold those lips that could inspire ;
So-shut thee from the airy sprite

That gives thy mournful song its breath;
The swell that erst gave such delight,
Shall close its lingering notes in death;
To sound no more-for damp decay
Upon thy mouldering strings shall dwell,
And thou shalt breathe no further lay,

And thou shalt raise no future swell.
The bard whose harp is now unstrung,
Whose eye is closed, whose cheek is cold,
Again shall hear his anthems sung,
And see them play'd on lyres of gold:
A lovely muse, with sparkling eye,
Shall wake him from his listless sleep,
And lead him to the orient sky,

Where merit is not doom'd to weep:
But where a fairy minstrel's hand

Shall strike such lingering notes as thine,
While Shakspeare, with the poet-band,
Shall rouse the organ's peal sublime.


J. M'Creery, Tooks Court,
Chancery Lane, London.

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