TO THE READER.

The three following little pieces were written at different periods, when the Author was smarting under the bereavement of an only child.

The first, a lovely daughter; the second, a promising son; and the third, another daughter: deposited in three different burial-grounds, with the consoling hope, that their spirits are one with the Redeemer in a world of bliss.

ELEGY,

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF AN

INFANT DAUGHTER.

November 15, 1809.

"Bright, early, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhal'd, and went to Heaven." Complaint.

How oft has my harp been in sympathy strung,

And the plaintive wild strains of sad elegy sung,
For beauty and innocence flown;

Ere feelings maternal were form'd in my heart,
Or the Muse could a sigh from Parnassus impart
To elegize griefs of my own.

I have seen the young rose-bud, in spring's early dawn,

Ere the dreary cold storms of chill winter are gone,
A blossom of beauty unfold;

But, too feeble the frosts of rude April to brave,
It has sunk like my child, to a premature grave,
The victim of tempest and cold.

I have seen the gay tulip, the pride of the vale, Tho' it blossom'd at morn, ere evening grow pale, And wither and die in a day;

I have seen the fair vi'lets of beautiful hue,

But their bloom will not last, and they fade like the dew

That hangs o'er the eyelids of May.

If beauty, or sweetness, or youth could avail,
The rose should not wither, the tulip grow pale,
Nor the vi'lets of summer decay;

Nor should the young cherub, so recently given,
That shone like a bright scintillation from Heaven,
Be hurried thus swiftly away.

O nature, dear nature, how potent thou art!
The pangs thou excit❜st in my agoniz'd heart,

Philosophy hardly will own;

Tho' reason instructs, that the God who had given,
Hath taken my child to his bosom in Heaven,
Yet feeling laments that 'tis gone.

Tho' it bloom'd like the first little roses of spring,
That scarce to the zephyr their fragrance can fling,
When their bloom and their beauty are o'er:
Transplanted to gardens of glory above,
Its fragrance shall live, and its beauty improve,
When nature and time are no more.

Then, why should I grieve for its early decay?
Since 'tis taken from scenes of affliction away,
To mansic ns of glory above?

Then why should a sigh rend my agoniz'd breast In death it has enter'd a permanent rest,

On the bosom of omnific Love.

Yet, emblem of beauty, thus recently fled!
I'll hallow the green turf that pillows thy head,

To affection and sympathy dear,

And oft as lone Philomel pours

her sad lay,

I'll visit the spot that embosoms thy clay,

And thy mem'ry embalm with a tear..