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There stood a cot, with flowers gay,
Where the young stream winds thro' the vale,

'Twas there my eyes first met the day!-
Is it unchanged ? Ah, tell the welcome tale !

“ 'Neath that roof there hung a nest Perchance it held your callow young:

But, whilst cherish'd by your breast, My mother's plaints around them rung;

Yet still she hoped each day would bring
Homeward her son—a stranger there.

She breathed my name, expiring ;-
Oh! tell me of her love, children of air!

“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,
Drenching the soil with native gore!

Can ye say that France surrenders ?
Unwelcome birds away, I'll hear no more!”

BERANGER.

THE SEASONS.

So forth issued the Seasons of the year:
First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers
That freshly budded, and new blooms did bear,
In which a thousand birds had built their bowers,
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
And in his hand a javelin he did bear,
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)

A gilt engraven morion he did wear;
That as some did him love, so others did him fear.

Then came the jolly Summer, being dight
In a thin silken cassock-coloured green,
That was unlined all, to be more light:
And on his head a garland well beseen
He wore, from which, as he had chauffed been,
The sweat did drop; and in his hand he bore
A bow and shafts, as he in forest green

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,
As though he joyed in his plenteous store,
Laden with fruits that made him laugh full glad
That he had banish'd Hunger, which to-fore
Had by the belly oft him pinched sore;
Upon his head a wreath, that was enrollid
With ears of corn of every sort, he bore;

And in his hand a sickle he did hold,
To reap the ripened fruits which the earth had yold.

Lastly, came Winter clothed all in frieze,
Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;
Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,
And the dull-drops that from his purpled bill
As from a limbeck did adown distill:
In his right hand a tipped staff he held,
With which his feeble steps he stayed still;

For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld,
That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld.

SPENSER.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.
Oh, was it meant, thou pretty one,

That, like an April beam,
Thy beauties should be known, to fade

E'en in their earliest gleam?

Was it to wake a mother's love,

To warm a father's heart,
That little smile, like meteor came,

As fleetly to depart?

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,

Thy tender beauties swell, In ardent, silent lovingness

Perhaps, I loved too well!

Perhaps, I was too proud of thee,

And while I held thee dear, Forgot my debt of gratitude

To Him who sent thee here!

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-

I press'd thee to my heartDeath must be blind to gaze on thee,

Yet not to stay his dart !

To close those little azure eyes

In darkness and in gloom,
To give that cherish'd form, to know

Corruption and the tomb.

Yet wherefore murmur, though our hopes

Lie buried in the grave?
It is His will who summons all ;

He takes away–who gave!

We should rejoice, to know that heaven

Relieves us of our care-
To think we have, whate'er our sin,

A Mediator there!

THOMAS FRICKER.

FAREWELL.

My little fairy chronicle,
The prettiest of my tasks, farewell!
Ere other eyes shall meet this line,
Far other records will be mine,
How many miles of trackless sea
Will roll between my land and me!
I said thine elfin almanack
Should call all pleasant hours back;

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