II. Fate with no heavier blow nor keener sting III. Alas! I may not meet thee in the crowd, IV. But oh! the deadly pang, the freezing chill, V. I cannot think that all our mutual dreams STANZAS. I. OH! visit not My couch of dreamless sleep, When even thou shalt be forgot By this so faithful breast; But let the stranger watch my silent rest I crave no sigh from thee, E'en when my mouldering frame is laid Within the cold dull grave; For the yew shall moan, and the night-wind rave, And dear, though mournful dreams alone remain Of me and misery! Oh! then, fair Maid! By twilight linger near IV. The rustling trees whose green boughs shade My lonely place of rest; And hallow thou the turf that wraps my breast With pity's purest tear ! BIRTH-DAY STANZAS TO MY CHILD. I. My spirit revels deep in dreams to-day; For though thy fairy form is far away, And still thy father treads this foreign ground, He sees thee in thy native fields at play, And hears thy light laugh's sweet familiar sound Merry and musical as birds in May ! II. This is thy natal morn—a date how dear! And soothed his soul in this ungenial clime! Thy sinless smile hath kindled hopes sublime, And made the gloom of exile seem less drear! III. Though now in weary loneliness I learn What countless miseries broken ties may bring, Though vainly to deserted rooms I turn For one domestic charm, I will not fling A shade upon this hour, nor idly yearn For pleasures passed on Time's too rapid wing; Nor pine at Fate's decrees, however stern. IV. Dear Child! to thee devoted is the day, Thy brethren, (gentle twins,) and she who bears The small white English cottage sweetly wears Their tribute-praise, foretel thy future years, And when the cheerful feast is nearly o'er, The wine-cup shall be filled, and thy dear name Regardful of the time; a pleasing shame Shall flush thy cheek; and then the brilliant store Of Birth-day gifts shall childhood's dreams inflame, While aged hearts remember days of yore. VI. And yet, 'mid all this mirthfulness and pride, prayers are breathed for him by fate denied VII. But this blest day no cares shall shade my heart, Dear forms of home, that wake a sweet surprise, |