How many happy hours we've known!
How many days of tears!
That home on hearth is desolate,
And those who gathered there
Have left it for another home,
Beyond earth's change & care.
This world is but a stormy one
An April day at best —
Why should I dread the home they've found
An fear with them to rest?
Tho' all I loved have passed away,
Yet would I not depart,
How strangely does the love of life
Cling to the human heart.
T. B. May 7th ^ 1843
The foregoing specimen of poetry found among some of
the writers papers, has been drawn off as dated and
subscribed, for the inspection of one who remarked,
(truely too) that writing in that style was not now
much practised; but this shows, weak as the performance
may appear to a penetrating judgement, that a favorite
exercise of mind has not been totally relinquished.
The inclosed speaks for its self, as an epitomised
sketch of the byography of the author. Let them both
be accepted for what worth; yet not considered as any part
of remuneration for kind attentions unremitingly manifested towards an unworthy but-greatful individual;
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