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THE DEAD INFANT.

A SKETCH.

-"It is not dead, but sleepeth!”

YES! this is Death! but in its fairest form,
And stript of all its terrors;-that closed eye
Tells nothing of the cold and hungry worm
That holds his revel-feast with frail mortality!

Yes! this is Death!--but like a cherub's sleep,
So beautiful-so placid;-who, of earth,
(And tasting earthly cares), would wish to weep
O'er one that has escaped the woes of mortal birth?

Here might the sculptor gaze, until his hand
Had learn'd to fashion forth yon lovely thing,
Pale as the chisell'd marble;-here command
Those beauties that defy all Art's imagining!

The still, calm brow-the smile on either cheek,
The little folded hands,-the lips apart,
As though they would the bonds of silence break,
Are they not models fair, meet for the sculptor's art?

Proud Science, come! learn of this beauteous clay, That seems to mock the dread Destroyer's reign, As though in slumber's downy links it lay,

Awaiting but the morn, to wake to life again!

Yes! this is Death! but in its fairest form,
And stript of all its terrors.-That seal'd eye
Tells nothing of the cold and hungry worm

That holds his revel-feast with frail mortality!

THE ESCAPED CONVICT.

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

HE trod his native land,

The bright land of the free;

His forehead wore a seared brand-
Impress of infamy!

His brow-where youth and beauty met—
Yes, there the seal of guilt was set.

He gazed upon the vale,

Where spring-tide flowerets slept,

Rock'd by the whispers of the gale;
He saw it-and he wept:

Like drops which page a storm they came,
Tears born in agony and shame.

Morn sat upon the hills,

But she look'd cold and dim;
Clouds, like a pall which death conceals,
Hung frowning there on him:

All, e'en his loved, his mother land,
Scowl'd on his forehead, and the brand.

My sire! my sire! he groan'd;
My home! my lovely one!-
What sire? he hath his child disown'd ;-
What home? I-I have none:

I hear all curse-I see all shun;-
Yet curse not you! not you-your son!

I saw her struck, whose cheek
Did myriad sweets disclose;

Whose eyes, whose form-but wherefore speak-
I saw !-my heart-blood rose:

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THE ESCAPED CONVICT.

She loved me-she was sworn my bride;
I stabb'd the Striker, and he died!

For this the record lies,
Festering upon my brow;

For this-the rabble mock'd my cries;
For this shame haunts me now;

For this-half wither'd must I be,
Ere my dead brow from stain is free.

My own, my beauteous land,
Land of the brave-the high;

I ask'd but this, of Fate's stern hand-
To see thee, and to die!
O yes, my country, let me be,
In my last hour-in death-with thee.

The Moon look'd on the vale,
Wearing her starry wreath,

And soft display'd a form, that, pale,
Lay there alone with death:

The Zephyrs drew a lengthen'd sigh,
And slow the Convict's corse pass'd by.

"Twas said, that lovely night,
A spirit youth was seen,

Gliding among the flowerets bright,

The trees, and meadows green;

And chiefly by a cot; and there
It wept, and melted into air.

THE LEGEND OF GENEVIEVE.

BY DELTA.

THE VISION.

I CALL upon thee in the night,
When none alive are near;
I dream about thee with delight,-
And then thou dost appear
Fair, as the day-star o'er the hill,
When skies are blue, and winds are still.

Thou stand'st before me silently,

The spectre of the past;

The trembling azure of thine eye,
Without a cloud o'ercast;

Calm as the pure and silent deep,

When winds are hush'd and waves asleep.

Thou gazest on me!—but thy look

Of angel tenderness,

So pierces, that I less can brook
Than if it spoke distress,
Or came in anguish here to me
To tell of evil boding thee!

Around thee robes of snowy white,
With virgin taste are thrown;
And at thy breast, a lily bright,
In beauty scarcely blown :-
Calmly thou gazest-like the moon
Upon the leafy woods of June.

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THE LEGEND OF GENEVIEVE.

The auburn hair is braided soft
Above thy snowy brow:-
Why dost thou gaze on me so oft?
I cannot follow now!

It would be crime, a double death
To follow thy forbidden path.

But let me press that hand again,
I oft have press'd in love,
When sauntering through the grassy plain,
Or summer's evening grove;
Or, pausing, as we mark'd afar,
The twinkling of the evening star.

It is a dream, and thou art gone;
The midnight breezes sigh;
And downcast-sorrowful-alone-
With sinking heart, I lie

To muse on days, when thou to me
Wert more than all on earth can be!

Oh! lonely is the lot of him,

Whose path is on the earth,

And when his thoughts are dark and dim, Hears only vacant mirth;

A swallow left, when all his kind

Have cross'd the seas and wing'd the wind.

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