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The Reader is presented, in this little casket, with a seasonable specimen, it is believed, of effusions which will be deemed worthy of the name of “ gems;”—worthy, especially in their sweet and pure spirit, of a place with the sacred remembrances and sadly-pleasant hopes which the return of the winter anniversaries is so well calculated to inspire. They are a few poems which, not having been the subject of much notice in this country, will have to most minds the charm of novelty added to the attraction of that delightful simplicity and fine feeling for which the Writer is so justly admired by those familiar with her productions, though we apprehend not so generally as even these modest indications of her merit will induce the reader to allow that she deserves. Her religious spirit, most of all, will command admiration.
We need more of such poetry as this touching address “ To the Dying Infant,” and the beautiful lines on the “pale, perishing flowers,” to remind us, through the vanity of all things beneath the sun, of the duty which remains to be discharged, and the destiny to be fulfilled, to fit us for that better world, where we
“ No more shall suffer pain ; And of the time when all of us
In heaven may meet again.”