4ti JULIA L. DUMONT. [1820-30. POVERTY. I PARDON the lover, that raves of the maid, Whose graces, tho' few, have his bosom betray'd, But the poet, who sings of dame poverty's cliarms, Deserves to be chained in her merciless arms. Behold her stern features, how livid and pale ; Her breath is the Upas, that withers the vale; Her garments hang loose round her skele- ton form, And she frowns like the demon that rides on the storm. If dropp'd thro' a cloud from the realms of the blest, A gem of benevolence glows in the breast; Let poverty breathe on this gem of the heart, Alas ! it no longer its light can impart. When touch'd by the tale of unvarnish'd distress, A hand is extended the sufferer to bless With cold, empty fingers that purpose to blight, Lo ! poverty comes, like the mildews of night. If science her treasure attempts to display, Where poverty holds her tyrannical sway, Her subjects are torn from the rapt'rous repast, To labor condemned, while the mind is to fixst. Tho' Genius goes forth on the pinions of light. With halos encircled, and brilliants bedight. If poverty's vapors around him are cast. The vale of obscurity hides him at last. Avaunt, then, thou goblin : away from my path! I'm weary of drinking thy vials of wrath; Thy mists have extinguisL'd the lights of my soul, And my spirit revolts from thy further control. THE MOTHER TO HER DYING INFANT. Child of my bosom, how deep thy decay ! Life ! thy last tint is now fading away ; Death his pale seal on thy cheek has im- press'd, — Babe of my love ! thou art hast'ning to rest. Pain ! thou shalt riot no more on his form.. Grave ! thy cold pillow is rock'd with no storm ; Slumbers of death, ye are tranquil and deep. Sweetly and long shall the suffering sleep. Bud of affection, pale, canker'd and low. Blossom of hope, shall I weep for the blow ! Life ! thy dark billow is turbid and wild, Mercy ! thy cherubims wait for my cliild. Go then, my babe, the deep conflict is past, Calm and resign'd, I will yield to tlie blast ; Go where the spoiler shall scatter no blight, Angels shall hymn thee to regions of light. Ah ! thy deep moauings still break on my ear. Still thy pure spirit is lingering here ; Grief! thy dark surges yet proudly shall roll, Visions of bliss ! ye have fled from my soul. Look at that face ! 'tis distorted and wild. See those wan features where innocence smiled ;
