Some small ingredient, when 'twas fix'd,
Was left by a mistake,
And others were together mix'd,
That active poison make.

To the Maiden

Maiden, have not the joys of earth
Prov'd fleeting, and of little worth?
And when the summer sun rode high,
Have clouds ne'er flitted o'er the sky?
Has Hope ne'er sprung beside thy way,
And blossom'd only to decay?
Has Friendship never chang'd her tone,
And 'woke a sigh for pleasures gone?
Has Love ne'er shed his fitful gleam
Across thy path--then hid his beam?
Hast thou ne'er felt the solemn truth--
That palsied age must steal o'er youth;
And that the auburn tresses gay
Must soon be chang'd for mournful gray?
Has sickness never pal'd the rose,
That on the cheek of beauty glows,
And ghastly death, with funeral gloom,
Oft call'd the lovely to the tomb?
Ah, maiden, yes, that tell-tale sigh,
The downcast glances of thine eye,
Say that thy heart is but the tomb
Of hopes that wither'd in their bloom;--
Say that, where all things else decay,
Thy fragile form must pass away.
Then why so fondly cling to earth,
Whose joys are of so little worth?
But rather raise your thoughts on high,
Where Hope's fair promises ne'er die,
Where ghastly death holds no domain,
But endless youth and beauty reign.

To Mrs. B----, On the Death of a Son.

How frail are all the things of earth,
How subject to decay;
Scarce they receive their fragile birth
Ere they are swept away.

And tyrant death, with icy hand,
Is ever lurking near,
And binding in his frozen band,
The forms to us most dear.

But do not mourn the early dead,
Whose thread of life is riven;
'Tis Jesus calls them from the earth,
To be with Him in heaven.

Spotless and pure they pass from earth,
And Jesus bids them come;
And glorious is their heavenly birth
In their eternal home.

No more you'll hear the plaintive voice;--
"Mother, dear mother, where?"
Your child shall with his God rejoice
In full fruition there.

No more shall burning fever rage,
No more shall pain oppress,
But angel strains his tongue engage
In hymns of righteousness.

And when life's ebbing sands shall fail,
And pallid death shall come,
May you then look within the vail,
To that eternal home.

And then, perhaps, your gentle child,
So soon from sin set free,
May be t