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414  MARIA LOWELL.

"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time
We call'd her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem—
For, sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,
As turn'd her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimm'd with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretch'd plea
Clasp'd all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift
To crown love's morning hour,
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up,
Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,
Till she lay stretch'd before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!


MARY L. SEWARD.  415

The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round:
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;
The tender things the winter kill'd
Renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning
Has pass'd away from earth.

Oh, Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain:
But up in groves of paradise
Full surely we shall see
Our morning-glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

MARY L. SEWARD.

MRS. SEWARD is a native of New York, and daughter of Mr. Mumford, well known as the editor of The Standard, an able democratic journal.  She was married a few years since to a son of the Hon. S. S. Seward, of Orange County, and is now a widow.  Her graceful and pleasing poems frequently appear in the Churchman's Miscellany, and other periodicals.

SYMPATHY.

COME thou with me—thy clasped hand in mine—
I'll tell thee o'er the story of thy heart;
I'll tell thee how my spirit springs to thine,
I'll bid the shadows from thy brow depart. 

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 20:57:42 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 21:09:58 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 19:19:55