She bless'd that day, which he remembers too,
When he could gaze on heaven's ethereal blue;
See the green spring, and summer's countless dyes,
And all the colours of the morning rise.

"When was this work of bitterness begun ?
How came the blindness of your only son ?"
Thus, Pity prompts full many a tongue to say,
But never, till she slowly wipes away
The obtruding tear that trembles in her eye,
This dagger of a question meets reply:

"My boy was healthy, and my rest was sound,
When last year's corn was green upon the ground.
From yonder town infection found its way:
Around me putrid dead and dying lay.

I trembled for his fate; but all my care
Avail'd not, for he breath'd the tainted air.
Sickness ensu'd. In terror and dismay

I nurs'd him in my arms both night and day,
When his soft skin, from head to foot, became
One swelling purple sore, unfit to name:
Hour after hour, when all was still beside,
When the pale night-light in its socket died,
Alone I sat the thought still soothes my heart,
That surely I perform'd a mother's part ;
Watching with such anxiety and pain,
Till he might smile, and look on me again.
But that was not to be. Ask me no more:

God keep smallpox and blindness from your door!"

LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

BY BLOOMFIELD.

WELCOME Silence! welcome Peace!
O, most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove, as years increase,
My heart and soul for quiet made:
Thus I fix my firm belief,

While rapture's gushing tears descend,
That every flower and every leaf

Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

I would not, for a world of gold,
That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold!

Pure source of intellectual fire!
Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,
Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to life.

Then tell me not, that I shall grow Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;

From Nature and her changes flow

An everlasting tide of joy.

I grant that summer heats will burn,

That keen will come the frosty night; But both shall please, and each in turn

Yield Reason's most supreme delight.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,

That One GREAT SPIRIT governs all.
O Heaven! permit that I may lie

Where o'er my corse green branches wave,

And those who from life's tumult fly,

With kindred feelings press my grave.

AN EVENING WALK.

CALM was the hour; the setting sun
Shed round a blaze of light;
A hectic flush, that told how near
The solitude of night.

Along the fields that splendour shone,
Among the woods it came;

Till ridge and meadow, knoll and tree
Seem'd kindling into flame.

My pathway through a winding vale,
A vale of beauty led;

With rude enclosures, scatter'd groves,
And cottage-roofs o'erspread.

Beyond, a line of taper light,

And tipp'd with beams of fire; For up into the evening sky Arose the village spire.

"Tis pleasant, at such solemn time,
To muse on things to come;
And ponder by the light of eve,

On man's eternal home.

I sought the church-yard's hallow'd bound :

It was a quiet space,

With many a trophy rais'd to death,

The genius of the place.

The turf on many a grave was green;
The wreathes that bound them, new;

And many a rude, unletter'd lay

Was present to my view.

No worldly pomp of mispent wealth,

No sculptur'd pile was there; But violets on each narrow sod

Perfum'd the evening air.

Yet was there one, a modest tomb,
Within that quiet ground;

And freshly water'd flowerets threw
A holy fragrance round.

Upon that tomb a maiden bent,
Her spirit rapt in pray'r;

The sunbeams sparkled on her robe,

And on her loosen'd hair.

She seem'd a spirit from the world
Of angels, sent to keep

Her watch of love above their dust
Who in that tomb might sleep.

In day's last glow, all glorified,
That pensive maid did seem
As beauteous as the shapes that haunt
The hermit's midnight dream.

But when she rose, and o'er her face
The fading sun-light stole,
So pure, so heavenly was her look,
It glanced into my soul.

Her eyes, of heaven's serenest hue, Were glistening through their tears;

And grief on her pale brow had stamp'd The thoughtfulness of years.