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TO

T** L** H**,

SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.

Sleep breathes at last from out thee,

My little, patient Boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think

Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,

That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears, These, these are things that may

demand Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,

I will not think of now;

And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow.;

But when thy fingers press

And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness,

The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new, Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too;

My light, where'er I go,

My bird, when prison bound, My hand in hand companion,—no,

My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say “ He has departed"

“ His voice”—“ his face"-is gone;" To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on;

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Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping !

This silence too the while
It's very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile :-

Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of Cherubim,

“ We've finished here."

Who say,

To J** H**, FOUR YEARS OLD.

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Ah little ranting Johnny,
For ever blithe and bonny,
And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses ;

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