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VIII.

IX.

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MISCELLANEOUS

POEMS.

His lips, the while,
Fluttering with half-fledged words,
Or hushing to a smile
That more than words expressed,
When his glad mother on him stole
And snatched him to her breast !
O, thoughts were brooding in those

eyes, That would have soared like strong.

winged birds
Far, far, into the skies,
Gladding the earth with song,
And gushing harmonies,
Had he but tarried with us long!
O stern word -- Nevermore!

THRENODIA. GONE, gone from us ! and shall we

see
Those sibyl-leaves of destiny,
Those calm eyes, nevermore?
Those deep, dark eyes so warm and

bright,
Wherein the fortunes of the man
Lay slumbering in prophetic light,
In characters a child might scan?
So bright, and gone forth utterly!
Ostern word — Nevermore !

The stars of those two gentle eyes Will shine no more on earth; Quenched are the hopes that had their

birth, As we watched them slowly rise, Stars of a mother's fate; And she would read them o'er and o'er, Pondering as she sate, Over their dear astrology, Which she had conned and conned

before, Deeming she needs must read aright What was writ so passing bright. And yet, alas ! she knew not why, Her voice would falter in its song, And tears would slide from out her eye, Silent, as they were doing wrong. Ostern word - Nevermore !

How peacefully they rest, Crossfolded there Upon his little breast, Those small, white hands that ne'er

were still before, But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast

she wore ! Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm, That ever seemed a new surprise Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm, Sweet thoughts ! they made her eyes

as sweet. How quiet are the hands That wove those pleasant bands ! But that they do not rise and sink With his calm breathing, I should think That he were dropped asleep. Alas ! too deep, too deep Is this his slumber ! Time scarce can number The years ere he will wake again. O, may we see his eyelids open then! O stern word - Nevermore !

The tongue that scarce had learned

to claim An entrance to a mother's heart By that dear talisman, a mother's name, Sleeps all forgetful of its art ! I loved to see the infant soul How mighty in the weakness Of its untutored meekness !) Peep timidly from out its nest,

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