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MORAL.

Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. In part abate, that happiness were small;

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, For with a race like theirs no chance I see

The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concera, Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. Or be it not, or be it whose it may,

What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
Of dæmons uttered, from whatever lungs,

By disappointment every day beguiled,
Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear, Dupe of tomorrow even from a child.
We have at least commodious standing here. Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went,
Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.

I learned at last submission to my lot,
While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
For Reynard, close attended at his heels

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, By panting dog, tired man, and spattered horse,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; Through mere good fortune, took a different course. And where the gardener Robin, day by day, The flock grew calm again, and I, the road Drew me to school along the public way, Following, that led me to my own abode,

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
Much wondered that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terror in an empty sound

'Tis now become a history little known, So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. That once we called the pastoral house our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair,

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced Live till to-morrow, will have passed away.

A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, PICTURE.

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glosed: With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

All this, and more endearing still than all. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,

That humour interposed too often makes; “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”

All this still legible in memory's page, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

And still to be so to my latest age, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim

Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
To quench it) here shines on me still the same,
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Oh welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who biddest me honour with an artless song,

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the bours, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I will obey, not willingly alone,

I pricked them into paper with a pin, But gladly, as the precept were her own:

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, And, while that face renews my filial grief,

Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smije) Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

Mightone wish bring them, would I wish them here! A momentary dream, that thou art she.

I would not trust my heart--the dear delight My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? But no-what here we call our life is such, Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

So little to be loved, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; Thy ynbound spirit into bonds again.
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss
Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast

(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,

Shoots into port at some well-bavened isle, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, And, turning from my nursery window, drew There sits quiescent on the floods, that show A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, But was it such i-It was. Where thou art gone, While airs impregnated with incense play

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Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; My boast is not that I deduce my birth So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; shore,

But higher far my proud pretensions rise“ Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;" The son of parents passed into the skies. And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide And now, farewell-time unrevoked has run Of life, long since, has anchored at thy side. His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, Always from port withheld, always distressed- I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed, To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost; Without the sin of violating thine; And day by day some current's thwarting force And, while the wings of fancy still are free, Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. And I can view this mimic show of thee, But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! Time bas but half succeeded in his theftThat thought is joy, arrive what may to me. Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

PART II.

LIVING POETS.

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