Infants, the children of the Spring!
How can an infant die

When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass and such a sky?
How can they die in Spring?

He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night,
That in the green fields grew
As childhood's sweet delight.

And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got:
They, met with plaintive sighs.

When Winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,

As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free:
He died so quietly.

John Clare: 1793-1864. (See page 88.)

THE DEATH-BED.

WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seem'd to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

1 cke--lengthen.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied—
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

Thomas Hood: 1798-1845.

(See page 72.)

"I'M SITTIN' ON THE STILE, MARY."

(From "Lament of the Irish Emigrant.")

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride :
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh they love the better still,
The few our Father sends !
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothin' left to care for now.
Since my poor Mary died.

Mrs. Price-Blackwood: 1807-1867.

The names Mrs. Price-Blackwood, Lady Dufferin, and Lady Gifford are variously appended to the above verses, and this has produced a little bewilderment as to the authorship. The explanation is simple enough. Helen, daughter of Thomas and grand-daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, wrote the Lament of the Irish Emigrant at a time when she was married to the Hon. Price-Blackwood, in 1825; her husband became Earl of Dufferin, but died in 1841; and she afterwards married the Earl of Gifford. The remaining stanzas of the Irish Emigrant are very inferior to those given above.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

THE breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark,

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted came ;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame ;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;-·

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

Till the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.

The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest, by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared:
Such was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band;

Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?
No! 'twas a faith's pure shrine.

Yes, call that holy ground,

Which first their brave feet trod!

They have left unstain'd what there they foundFreedom to worship God.

Felicia Dorothea Hemans: 1793-1835.

(See page 42.)

ON RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!'
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!

Who bid'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My Mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away, And turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? -It was.-Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently1 I wish'd, I long believed, And disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation ev'ry day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble2 coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair, That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, 2 bauble-toy.

1 ardently-eagerly.

3 pastoral house-vicarage.