Sweet heads of clover from their tiny hands.
But on a sorrowful day a random-shot
Of some bold thief, or well-skill'd forester,
Struck him to death, and many a tear and sob
Were the unwritten epitaph upon him.
The children would not lose him utterly,
But pray'd to have his mottled beautiful skin
A rug to their new pony-chaise, that they
Might oftener think of their lost favourite.
Ay-there it is!-that precious treasury
Of fond remembrances-that glossy skin!
O, thou chief solace in the wintry nights
That warms my poor old heart, and thaws my breast
With tears of-Mais, Monsieur, asseyez vous!”-
But I had started up, and turn'd aside
To weep in solitude.
Ан, might I but escape to some sweet spot,
Oasis of my hopes, to fancy dear,
Where rural virtues are not yet forgot,
And good old customs crown the circling year;
Where still contented peasants love their lot,
And trade's vile din offends not Nature's ear,
But hospitable hearths, and welcomes warm,
To country quiet add their social charm;
Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore,
A wooded dingle on a mountain-side,
Within the distant sound of ocean's roar,
And looking down on valley fair and wide,
Nigh to the village church, to please me more
Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride,
And blest with pious pastor, who has trod
Himself the way, and leads his flock to God:
"There would I dwell, for I delight therein!" Far from the evil ways of evil men, Untainted by the soil of others' sin,
My own repented of, and clean again :
With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within,
Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen,
And mountain rambles with a welcome friend,
And dear domestic joys that never end.
There, from the flowery mead, or shingled shore,
To cull the gems that bounteous Nature gave,
From the rent mountain pick the brilliant ore,
Or seek the curious crystal in its cave;
And learning Nature's Master to adore,
Know more of Him who came the lost to save;
Drink deep the pleasures contemplation gives,
And learn to love the meanest thing that lives.
No envious wish my fellows to excel,
No sordid money-getting cares be mine;
No low ambition in high state to dwell,
Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine;
But, sweet Benevolence, regale me well
With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine,
And meek-eyed piety, be always near,
With calm content, and gratitude sincere.
Rescued from cities, and forensic strife,
And walking well with God in Nature's eye,
Blest with fair children, and a faithful wife,
Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh,
O, thus to wear away my useful life!
And, when I'm call'd in rapturous hope to die,
Thus to rob heav'n of all the good I can,
And challenge earth to show a happier man!
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.
My own little darling-dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live,
Now my poor babe is dead!
No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest;
No more on my arm,
Nestled up warm,
Shall my fair darling rest:
Alas, for that dear glazed eye!
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kissed so oft,
Why are they ice, oh why?
Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?
O, harrowing sight! to behold.
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!
Where is each heart-winning way,
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
Alas, they are gone,
And left me alone,
To weep for them night and day!
Yet why should I linger behind?
Kill me too! Death most kind,
Where can I go
To meet thy blow,
And my sweet babe to find?
I know it, I rave half wild!
But who can be calm and mild
When the deep heart
Is riven apart
Over a dear dead child!
I know it, I should not speak
So boldly; I ought to be meek:
But love it is strong,
And my spirit is stung,
• Lying all numb'd and weak.
"My times are in thy hand."
YET will I trust! in all my fears,
Thy mercy, gracious Lord, appears,
To guide me through this vale of tears,
And be my strength;
Thy mercy guides the ebb and flow
Of health and joy, or pain and wo,
To wean my heart from all below
To Thee at length.
Yes, welcome pain, which Thou hast sent;
Yes, farewell, blessings, Thou hast lent;
With Thee alone I rest content,
For Thou art Heav'n:
My trust reposes, safe and still,
On the wise goodness of Thy will,
Grateful for earthly good-or ill.
Which Thou hast giv❜n.
O, blessed Friend! O, blissful thought!
With happiest consolation fraught
Trust Thee I may, I will, I ought;
To doubt, were sin;
Then let whatever storms arise,
Their Ruler sits above the skies,
And lifting unto him mine eyes,
'Tis calm within.
Danger may threaten, foes molest,
Poverty brood, disease infest,
Yea, torn affections wound the breast,
For one sad hour.
But Faith looks to her home on high,
Hope casts around a cheerful eye,
And Love puts all the terrors by
With gladdening power.
WILT thou gaze with me on flowers,
And let their sparkling eyes,
Glancing brightly up to ours,
Teach us to be wise?
The pale narcissus tells of youth
Nurtured in purity and truth;
Violets on the moss-bank green,
Of sweet benevolence unseen;
A rose is blooming charity;
A snow-drop, fair humility;
Yon golden crocus, smiling sweetly,
Smiles, alas, to perish fleetly;
That hyacinth, with cluster'd bells,
Of sympathy in sorrow tells;
This young mimosa, as it trembles,
Affection's thrilling heart resembles;
And the glazed mirtle's fragrant bloom
Hints at a life that mocks the tomb.
What is a flower? a beauteous gem
Set in Nature's diadem,
A sunbeam o'er her tresses flung,
A word from her poetic tongue;
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