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254   CYNTHIA TAGGART. 

This magic flower
In desperate hour
A balsam mild shall yield, 
When the sad, sinking heart  
Feels every aid depart, 
And every gate of hope for ever seal'd. 

Then still its potent charm 
Each agony disarm, 
And its all-healing power shall respite give.
The frantic sufferer, then,
Convulsed and wild with pain, 
Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live. 

The dews of slumber, now, 
Rest on her aching brow,
And o'er the languid lids balsamic fall; 
While fainting nature hears, 
With dissipated fears, 
The lowly accents of soft Somnus' call. 

Then will affection twine
Around this kindly flower; 
And grateful memory keep 
How, in the arms of sleep, 
Affliction lost its power. 


ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 

MRS. EAMES is a native of New York, but lived till her seventeenth year in a secluded village on the banks of the Hudson. In 1836, she was married to Mr.W.S. Eames, and removed to New Hartford, where she now resides. She was a regular contributor to the New-Yorker for some years before her marriage (under the signature of Stella); and since that period her writings have frequently appeared in Graham's Magazine, The Southern Literary Messenger, and more recently still in The Columbian.  
Mrs. Eames is a student, and has suffered much from ill-health. Her mind is of a serious, generally of a pensive mood; yet not desponding or downcast——"gazing upon the ground with thoughts that dare not glow." Her strains exhibit much chastened fervour, an uplifting of the soul to a lofty purpose, and a steadfast desire to attain it, even though it be through pain. A volume of her poetry, which has never yet been collected, will shortly appear, and meet, we doubt not, they kind welcome it deserves. 

"THERE SHALL BE LIGHT."  

ONWARD and upward, O my soul! 
Let thy endeavour be ——
Though dark the cloud-mist 'bove thee roll, 
Light shall be given to thee; 
Through stormiest waves and billows rock 
Thy human bark at will,
Thou shalt have strength to bear the shock —— 
Be Hope thy anchor still. 

Alas! thou shrinkest with lonely fear, 
Thou tremblest with the cold, 
Thy inner life shows pale and drear, 
And languidly unfold 
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