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Yet we know that her soul is happy now,

Where the saints their calm watch keep; That angels are crowning that fair young brow,

Then wherefore do we weep?

Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
. Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,

As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone,

There is silence still and deep;
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne, --

Then wherefore do we weep?

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe,

That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all, —

And her glossy golden hair!
But though that lid may never wake

From its dark and dreamless sleep;
She is gone where young hearts do not break,-

Then wherefore do we weep ?

That world of light with joy is bright,

This is a world of woe :
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,

Because we dwell below ?
We will bury her under the mossy sod,

And one long bright tress we'll keep ;
We have only given her back to God,

Ah ! wherefore do we weep ?

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,

My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years,

And natural piety that lean'd to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient of rebuke when justly given :
Obedient,-easy to be reconciled ;
And meekly cheerful,—such wert thou, my child !

Not willing to be left ; still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn : but pleased to glide

Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying,
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

Oh ! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness,-prone to fade,-

And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind !

Then thou, my merry love ;—bold in thy glee,

Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,

Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth !

Thine was the shout! the song ! the burst of joy!

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth ; Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply, Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark blue eye!

And thine was many an art to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile ;--the frequent soft caress ;

The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound.

At length thou camest; thou, the last and least ;

Nick-named “ the Emperor,” by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swell’d thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others;
Mingling with every playful infant wile
A mimic majesty that made us smile :-

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou !

An eye of resolute and successful scheming ;
Fair shoulders-curling lip-and dauntless brow-

Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreaming:
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim,

I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either, by this love's comparing;
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,
But in the mother's heart found room for ALL!

THE CHILD OF EARTII.

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow; Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,

“ I am content to die,-but, oh! not now !Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. Spare me, great God ! lift up my drooping brow; I am content to die,-but, oh! not now !"

The spring hath ripened into summer time;

The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime :

Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ?

“Let me not perish while o'er land and lea,

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on; Not while the murmur of the mountain-bee

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow; I am content to die,-but, oh! not now !"

Summer is gone : and autumn's soberer hues

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,

Shouts the halloo ! and winds his eager horn. “ Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze

On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream, To watch in silence while the evening rays

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam ! Cooler the breezes play around my brow; I am content to die,-but, oh! not now !”

The bleak wind whistles : snow-showers, far and near,

Drift without echo to the whitening ground; Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear,

Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound : Yet still that prayer ascends. “Oh! laughingly

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,

And the roof rings with voices light and loud :
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die,—but, oh! not now !"

The spring is come again—the joyful spring!

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread; The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing :

The child of earth is numbered with the dead ! “ Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,

Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane ;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow ;
Why didst thou linger 1-thou art happier now !"

SAMUEL ROGERS was born in London, in the year 1762: his father was a banker,and the Poet, it is known, follows the same profitable calling. His first work, an " Ode to Superstition, and other Poems," was published in 1786. It met with considerable success; and the appearance of the “Pleasures of Memory," in 1792, at once established a reputation, which has continued undiminished for nearly half a century. The " Pleasures of Memory" was followed by an "Epistle to a Friend;" " the Voyage of Columbus;" and " Jacqueline," which was originally published in the same volume with Lord Byron's "Lara." This was succeeded by " Human Life." His last, and we think his greatest, work, “ Italy," was published in 1823. An edition of this volume, magnificently illustrated by a series of fine engravings, from the designs of Turner and Stothard, appeared in 1830; and, although it was at first considered that the author sought only to indulge his fancy by a large expenditure, for which he did not anticipate a return, we believe the extent of its sale has been so large, that the experiment has been exceedingly lucrative. The other “Poems" were published on a similar plan, in 1834. The two volumes are, without exception, the most exquisite examples of embellished books which our age, so fertile in such achievements, has yet produced. They afford proof that a judicious employment of capital cannot fail to ensure success. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that the Editor of the " Book of Gems" is indebted to Mr. Rogers for the suggestion of his work.

Mr. Rogers is now not a young man. He has preserved his fame, notwithstanding that since he obtained it so many new and vigorous competitors have started for the same goal. Portraits of him, in abundance, have been published: they all give us the outlines of a countenance strongly marked,--but not one of them supply us with the smallest notion of the shrewd and observant man, who, through nearly all his life in “ populous city pent," has looked much about him, both at home and abroad: has devoted all his leisure to the “ proper study of mankind;" and whose natural talent has been matured and polished by a long intercourse with all the finer spirits of the age. Few men have been more extensively known, or more universally courted; his conversation is remarkably brilliant, and his wit pure and original.

Mr. Rogers, it is said, writes with labour, and polishes with exceeding care. His poems are not, perhaps, remarkable for passion or vigour; and he does not attempt invention. They are, however, surpassingly sweet, touching, and correct; a false rhyme, or an inharmonious sound, rarely or never occurs in any of his productions, He is the contemplative philosopher, rather than the man of action. It may be that his earnest desire to refine, has often lessened the strength of a thought; and that the melody of his verse has procured him more admirers than the energy of his conceptions; but if the grand object of a writer is to give pleasure to a reader, he has undoubtedly attained it. The "Pleasures of Memory" has stood the test of time: the grandsires of the present race loved it; and it remains one of the most popular productions of the press. His “ Italy" will for ever hold place among the finest poems in the language. Its leading feature is simplicity. Nature itself is not more free from meretricious and inappropriate ornament. It is the record of a "keen observer" learned and contemplative-passing through a country, every spot of which has been made familiar to the scholar by his books, telling all he sees, hears, and thinks, in language so unforced and natural, so graceful and impressive, that the people with their habits, and the palaces with their traditions, appear actually before the reader. In a brief preface to the work, he says," wherever he came he could not but REMENBER;"-- it is, however, in calling actual observation and experience to the aid of memory and reading, that his great excellence consists. His descriptions are marvellously accurate : with a single sentence he pictures a whole scene; th unworthy of past ages are brought, as it were, under our very eyes; and the deep pathos with which the legendary tales are told, is singularly affecting. Who that has read the story of Ginevra can ever forget it? How different from-because how much more natural than-the solemn dignity of Childe Harold, or the impassioned glow of Corinne, is the “ Italy" of Rogers. It is, indeed, a romance without exaggeration ; a book of travels, without a tedious detail; a history of classic ground, which may be

red without struggling to obtain it through the schools ; and a poem, with all the best, most exciting, and most attractive attributes of poetry.

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