Dedication in an Album.

Pure, unsullied pages lay before me.  How chaste should be the thought, how refined the sentiment here inscribed.  May this book be dedicated to Religion, Morality and Virtue, and a deep toned piety pervade the thoughts and emotions here portrayed, which shall find a deep response in your own heart.  Like these spotless pages, the mind of youth lays unoccupied, spread out for the reception of the seed committed to its trust.  May it be yours to propagate high and holy principles, that shall be watered by the dews of divine grace, ripened by the Sun of Righteousness, and bring forth fruit to eternal life.

As passing years bear away the glad season of youth, and usher in a more mature period, may the traces upon these pages bring back pleasant recollections of dear friends, some, perchance, who may have passed away with passing years, and the hand that now writes may be mouldering in the dust; for disguise as we may, “it is appointed to all men once to die.”  Those who live well, live in preparation for death.

When in future years your eye glances upon this page, my prayer for your enduring happiness will meet it.  May flowers bloom beside your pathway, that never fade.

  Sweet flowers beside thy pathway
    Are blooming, bright and gay,
  Fann’d gently by the zephyr’s wing,—­
    Kiss’d by the sun’s warm ray.

  But soon they fold their withered leaves,
    And fade away and die;
  But still they shed a sweet perfume,
    Where fallen low they lie.

  But there are flowers, perennial flowers,
    That bloom within the mind: 
  Shedding a fragrance o’er the life,
    Leaving perfume behind.

  Henry, may these adorn your mind,
    Religion, Virtue, Truth;
  And thus diffuse their odor sweet,
    O’er the glad days of youth.

  They shall not fade, but brighter bloom,
    As years are flitting by;—­
  Cast a sweet fragrance round the tomb,
    And bloom in worlds on high.

Lines, Written to Mrs. S——­, On the Death of Her Infant.

  Thy anxious watchings now are past,
    The summons has been given,
  Thy gentle one has breath’d her last,
    And gone from earth to heaven.

  Yet do not mourn that she from earth
    Thus early passed away;
  A pitying Saviour call’d her hence,
    To realms of endless day.

  And she is free from earth-born cares,
    Which we must still endure;
  Her little dream of life is o’er,
    Her crown of glory sure.

  Though icy death, like winter’s shroud,
    Surrounds the mould’ring tomb,
  Upon the resurrection morn
    Eternal spring shall bloom.

  Mother of angels, softly tread,
    Perchance to thee ’tis given,
  To hold communings with the dead,
    Who live and reign in heaven.

  And as thy treasures there are laid,
    There thy warm hopes will rise;
  Thou hast an added golden link
    To draw thee to the skies.