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102  ANNA MARIA WELLS.

'T was there I ran and closed the door
'Gainst one who ill such usage bore,
A playful child,-ah! now no more-
My petted brother!

And there with mingled joy and pain,
To con their tasks and con again,
I taught my little sisters twain,
For ever busy;
Just out the closet door they sat,
And mischief oft they would be at;
I loved them dearly for all that,
Fanny and Lizzie!

There, when my heart was sick with grief,
Finding its youthful joys so brief,
In prayer I sought a sure relief,
Denied me never.
Ah! sad to my young heart the day,
When, lingering still with fond delay,
I wept, and turn'd me thence away,
Alas! for ever.

MORNING.

OF all his starry honours shorn,
Away old night is stealing;
And upward springs the laughing morn,
A joyous life revealing.

Blue-eyed she comes with tresses spread,
And breath than incense sweeter;
The mountains glow beneath her tread,
Light clouds float on to meet her.

The tall corn briskly stirs its sheaves;
A thousand buds have burst
The soft green calyx, that their leaves
To greet her may be first.

ANNA MARIA WELL. 103

The flowers, that lay all night in tears,
Look upward one by one;
And pearls each tiny petal bears,
An offering to the sun.

With beads the trembling grass is dress'd,-
Each thin spire hath its string,
Scatter'd in mist, as from her nest
The ground-bird flaps her wing.

The lake obeys the zephyr's will,
While, as by fingers press'd,
The bending locust-buds distil
Their sweetness o'er its breast.

With busy sounds the valley rings;
The ploughman yokes his team;
The fisher trims his light boat's wings,
And skims the brightening stream.

The gentle kine forsake the shed,
And wait the milk-maid's call;
The frighted squirrel hears her tread,
And scuds along the wall.

Scattering the night-clouds as in scorning,
Bright pour the new-born rays;
There's more of life in one sweet morning,
Than in a thousand days.

TO MARY, SLEEPING.

SLEEP on, sleep on! while yet thy sleep is sweet,
Nor scared by phantoms of world-weary care,
False pleasure, fear, or still delusive hope!
Sweeter the slumber that, perchance, for thee
Thy guardian angel tints with dreamy bliss.
That cherub-smile speaks not of gross delight;

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 07:24:37 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 12:24:29 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 10:52:01