There stood a cot, with flowers gay, "'Neath that roof there hung a nest,― She breathed my name, expiring ;- "Saw ye not the jocund throng Flock from the church in concourse gay, Chorussing th' hymeneal song, To grace my sister's nuptial day? Saw ye not my comrades crowding, Vaunting their deeds by land and sea; But my name in sorrow shrouding, They still, sweet birds !—they still remember me? "But I dream!-my foe commands Where none but Frenchmen should bear sway; And, perhaps, his hostile bands To that calm vale have traced the way; Trampling down the fields' defenders, Can ye say that France surrenders? BERANGER. THE SEASONS. So forth issued the Seasons of the year: That as some did him love, so others did him fear. Then came the jolly Summer, being dight He wore, from which, as he had chauffed been, Had hunted late the libbard or the boar, And now would bathe his limbs with labour heated sore. Then came the Autumn, all in yellow clad, Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll'd To reap the ripened fruits which the earth had yold. Lastly, came Winter clothed all in frieze, SPENSER. ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. Он, was it meant, thou pretty one, That, like an April beam, Thy beauties should be known, to fade Was it to wake a mother's love, To warm a father's heart, That little smile, like meteor came, Was it for this alone, or say Was't for some early sin, That weigh'd upon the parent's heart, And needed chastening? How did I watch thy little form, In ardent, silent lovingness Perhaps, I was too proud of thee, I scarce had time to know thee well, Scarce could command thy love, Ere thou wast snatch'd away, to seek A happier home above. I held thee, sufferer in my arms— To close those little azure eyes In darkness and in gloom, To give that cherish'd form, to know Yet wherefore murmur, though our hopes It is His will who summons all; We should rejoice, to know that heaven To think we have, whate'er our sin, A Mediator there! THOMAS FRICKER. FAREWELL. My little fairy chronicle, The prettiest of my tasks, farewell! Should call all pleasant hours back; |