The Child [pp. 69]

FAITH.-SOLILOQUY.-THE CHILD.
there is a proper medium between indecent haste,
on one hand, and total indifference on the other.
Shunning both extremes, proceed as a Christian
should do, make it a subject of little conversation
with man, but much prayer to God; for it involves
greater interest than any other act of human life.
Be careful and prudent, wait patiently the opening
of Providence, till there is an opportunity to form
a safe and happy union, then improve it. And
when such union is formed, let the parties make the
best of it, for the glory of God, the good of society, and their own happiness.
FAITH.
BY MRS. H. C. OARDINi:R.
Lo-w. star, that through the parted cloud
So sweetly now art smiling,
Gilding thy dark and misty shroud,
The traveler's fears beguiling,
How soon again thy cheering light
The robe of gloom must wear!
But yet, though hidden from the sight,
We know thou still art there.
Young bud, whose hidden graces rare
No mortal hand hath molded;
Bright bud, whose silken petals fair
Were never yet unfolded,
Thou'rt bursting into beauty now;
The soft red leaves appear;
Enthroned upon the leafy bough
The queenly rose is here.
The mariner, when far at sea,
When darkness shrouds the main,
Doth not look forward hopelessly,
Or doubtingly complain.
What though the restless billows rave,
And storms and tempests come!
He sees, beyond the swelling wave,
The mellow light of home.
Then, Christian, hope; the radiant star
Of Faith is beaming bright,
Through deepest gloom it sheds afar
A flood of holy light;
The bud of hope, a bud so long,
Expands, a perfect rose:
And see, beyond the surges strong,
The haven of repose!
SOLILOQUY
ON THE PROPRIETY OF BECOMING A CONTRIBUTOR TO ToE
LADIES' REPOSITORY.
BY B. N. B.
To write, or not to write, that is the question!
Whether'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The scorn that Talent lavishes on Dullness,
Or to take arms against a host of critics,
And battle for their suffrage! To write-succeed
No more; and by success to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand shrinking fears
Woman is heir to-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To write-succeed Succeed! perchance to fail; ay, there's the rub;
For how much shame is joined unto such failure,
When we have made an effort of the mind,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes our willful silence so long-lived;
For who would bear the cool contempt of Talent,
The scorn of Genius, proud man's contumely,
The pang of mind despised, bright Hope's decay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That modest merit of the assuming takes,
When she.herself could her quietus make
By poem or essay? Who contempt would bear
Through life's unprized and weary pilgrimage,
But that the dread of something after writing,
(The keen, unsparing criticism, from whose lash
Few are exempt,) deters the attempt,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hues of resolution
Are sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
THE CHILD.
BY MRS. HARLAN.
I'VE watched her long and sadly, till the shade
Of death is hovering darkly o'er her brow;
I saw the life-blood from her fair cheek fade:
Alas! and is my darling dying now?
Wipe the last tear from those lov'd eyes no more;
My sorrow dims their lustre; at her heart
The pulse is faint-her sufferings almost o'er;
My dying child, so soon, so sad to part!
And now long between each lingering breath;
See how she folds her pale arms on her breast!
A sweet smile wreathes her lovely face-'tis death!
How calmly, quietly she sinks to rest!
She's gone for ever; 0, I did not dream
That death would touch a form so young and fair:
Those cheeks all rosy as the morning beam Those lov'd eyes, this smooth brow, and golden
hair!
Array her for the tomb; she's mine no more;
She was so like an angel from her birthAn angel now-she's gone where death is o'er,
Too pure and sinless for this changeful earth.
God gave her-let my troubled heart be still And he hath taken her from toil and care;
I'll bow my stricken spirit to his will,
In holy trust, that I shall meet her there.
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