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In her cerements enfolded

Pale and beautiful she slept,

While around her faithful maidens
And her sobbing father wept.

Precious things their memories cherished, Words and actions of the dead;

And, when talking of her virtues,

How they turned and blessed the maid!

All her innocent intentions,

Loving-kindness to the poor;

How she with her little dainties
Visited affliction's door.

Then a memory of her beauty,

Eye of brightness, blushing cheek,

Broke upon their mental vision,

Moral worth and spirit meek.

Like a rose in richness breaking,

So their lovely creature grew;

Like a sunset ever changing

Into deeper beauty too;

When an angel passed and saw her

In her purity and love,

And attracted by her graces,

Took her to her home above.

She hath left thee, classic Hyefield,
Nursery of the tenderest loves;

All thy shades of sylvan sweetness,
Loving hearts, and petted doves.

When on earth, she loved its flowers

Flowers were coffined with the dead;

Now a group of English daisies

Watch and weep above her head.

VOL. I.

L

BLANCHE.

ADDRESSED TO HER BEREAVED PARENT.

HER soul was made of love-dear lamb, sweet dove;
Her prayer, her song, her faith, her life was love;
Love was the flower that in her garden grew,
The golden thought which ran each action through.
Whene'er she breathed, love whispered tenderness:
Whene'er she spoke, her honied lips dropped love;
And while she lived, she walked this wilderness
Almost a mirror of a saint above.

Her mother's joy, she loved her mother most;
And how her parent prized the dear one lost,
Let tears bedropped in sorrow's lonely way
The heavy burden of the mourner say.

Dost think her dead, fond weeper? Look afar:
Behold! She shines an everlasting star

That came to bid thine earth-bound heart be riven

From this poor world, and follow her to Heaven.

BEAUTY.

I'm seen upon the verdant hill,
And in the winding vale ;

I revel in the rich parterre,

And in the odorous gale.

I light the dew-drop's sparkling gem,
I tint the vaulted skies;

Recline upon the rosy cheek,
And dance in magic eyes.

I'm linked to Hogarth's wavy line,

To colour, and to form ;

To man, to beast, to fish, and bird

That rides upon the storm.

When mental worth with graceful form Doth visit sorrow's den,

To dry the tender orphan's tear,

You best can see me then.

The poet worships at my shrine ;

The painter feels me near;

The sculptor owns my charms divine; Taste is my son and heir.

I mould the rapt musician's ear,

Impel the author's pen;

And give to orators the fire

That burns within their brain.

I've slain the stoutest warrior's heart, Inspired the wise and good;

And when I reach their inmost soul,

I am best understood.

I'm heard, too, in the circling strain
That issues from the horn;

And in the warblings of the lark,
That sings at early morn.

I'm felt upon the warm sleek breast Of battle-prancing steed;

And on the damask-cushioned throne

Where mitred bishops read.

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