VOL. X.

A MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD.

BRING me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest, baby fair,
With roseless cheek, and auburn hair!

Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desart heath;
The lily of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.

Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not,
That I may strew them o'er thy bier
With long-drawn sigh, and gushing tear!

No taint of earth, no thought of sin,
E'er dwelt thy stainless breast within;
And God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl below the deep.

Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown
Above, and found the heavenly throne,
To join that blest angelic ring,
That aye around the altar sing.

Methought, when years had roll'd away,
That thou wouldst be mine age's stay,
And often have I dreamt to see
The boy-the youth-the man in thee!

But thou hast past! for ever gone
To leave me childless and alone,
Like Rachel pouring tear on tear,
And looking not for comfort here!

Farewell, my child, the dews shall fall
At morn and evening o'er thy pall;
And daisies, when the vernal year
Revives, upon thy turf appear.

The earliest snow-drop there shall spring,
And lark delight to fold his wing,
And roses pale, and lilies fair,

With perfume load the summer air!

2 A

"TWAS when the summer skies were blue, and when the leaf was green,
When beauteous birds and blossoms on every bough were seen,
That I parted with my gallant love, as to the wars he went;
May dreams of home aye hover round the pillow of his tent.

Though pleasantly the sun illumes the woodland walks and bowers,
And sweetly sounds the stream, amid its broider'd banks of flowers;
Though the chesnut boughs be shady, and the orchard trees be fair,
I only think on days, when with my love I wander'd there.

I care not now, at noon of night, around the park to stray,
But sit and gaze upon the moon, that wends its silent way,
And I think, as on its silver orb I fix my eager sight,
Perhaps my William's eyes have there been also fix'd to-night.

Oh! soon be war's red standard furl'd, for silently by day
I sit and muse on pleasures past, and pine myself away;
And only through the dreams of night for me are pleasures shown,
For I wake, and sigh at morning light, to find myself alone.

Oh! may I hope within thy breast, that now and then may start,
'Mid noisy camps, a pensive thought, that brings thee to my heart;
When round the board, at eventide, the wine-cup circles free,
Be joyous, and give smiles to all, but keep one sigh for me!

How happily these scenes shall look, that now deserted be,
How glad shall be the home, that now is sad, deprived of thee!
Till fame with glory crown thee, and thy course be hither bent,
May dreams of home aye hover round the pillow of thy tent!

No. VIII.

COME, MARY, TO ME!
THE sun is sinking brightly
Beyond the glowing seas;
The birds are singing lightly
From yonder clump of trees;
The labourer hath hied him home,
The ploughboy left the lea;
Come, Mary, 'tis for thee I roam—
Come, Mary, to me!

The beds of flowering clover
Exhale a perfume sweet;
The evening breeze sighs over

The shaded hawthorn seat;

All day I've wish'd this hour to come,
I've thought of meeting thee.
Come, Mary, 'tis for thee I roam,-
Come, Mary, to me!

Oh, fairest! and oh, dearest!
My life I would not give,
When to thee I am nearest,
For such as nobles live ;
I envy none, yet pity some,
Who true love never see.
Come, Mary, 'tis for thee I roam,—
Come, Mary, to me!

No. IX.

TO BETSY.

Though, Betsy, another's thou art,
Who often hast clung to my side;
And, though 'mid my musings I start,
That another now calls thee his bride;
Though the love that between us did bloom,
On thy side is wither'd and cold;

Still it breathes to my heart in its gloom,
As fragrant and fresh as of old!"

Ah, me! that the visions of youth
Like rainbows all melt and decay!
That the vows and the pledges of truth,
Should be things that can bind but a day!
That the heart, like the seasons, can turn,
And from sunshine be chill'd into frost ;
And the flame, which so brightly could burn,
In an instant be vanish'd and lost!

Then, Betsy, for ever farewell!

Every thought I have cherish'd for thee,
In the depth of my bosom shall dwell,
Like a treasure deep hid in the sea.

Through the scenes, where so often we roved,
"Twill sooth me all lonely to stray;
Every flower, every spot that was loved,
Shall be hallow'd when thou art away!

Farewell! oh, be happy, be blest,
With him whom thy heart hath preferr'd;
May grief, in the home of thy rest,

Far off, be a sound never heard ;
And though dark, and despairing, and lone,
Must the thread of my destiny be,
To dream of the years that are gone,

Is sweeter than new loves to me!

No. X.

THE EVENING INVITATION.

Oh Ida! fair Ida! the evening is sweet,
The small birds sing forth from their leafy retreat,
Peace broods o'er the hamlet, peace reigns on the hill;
Nought is heard, save the river, that murmurs so still;
'Tis the time for the saint, or the lover to roam;
'Tis the soft hour of feeling, oh come, my love, come !

In solitude ever my dreams are of thee,
And in cities thy likeness I never can see ;-
As the rainbow comes after the tempest to say,
That the showers and the thunders have melted away,
So the thought of thy charms can a magic impart,
To scatter the sorrows that brood o'er my heart!

Oh Ida, my loved one, oh Ida, my sweet,
Could it be, I would pour out my soul at thy feet;
As the nightingale sits by the side of the rose,
Singing warmer and clearer the brighter it glows;
As the bee seeks the flower, that is fairest and best,
So my thoughts dwell on thee, where alone they are blest.

Oh come, my love, Ida! when thou art away
No pleasure is sweet, and no landscape is gay!

Though the flowers, and the waters, and the woods are so fair,
A something is wanting, if thou be not there;

The sunshine is rayless, the songsters are dumb,
When Ida I see not; oh come, my love, come!

No. XII.

THE WANDERER'S ADIEU.

Receive, O beloved, in kindness receive
The silent and secret farewell

Of one, who has fervently loved thee, believe,
Without the assurance to tell.

How often, alas! have I linger'd at eve,
One glance of thy beauty to greet;

And, if 'twas denied me, 'twas pleasant to grieve,
Since the source of my sorrow was sweet.

How often, unmark'd, have I gazed upon thee,
With a feverish glow at my heart,

And, oh! if thy voice was directed to me,
How the life in my bosom would start.
But thy words were so gentle, so modestly free,
As to calm every doubt of my breast;

Like the sunbeams of evening that fall on the sea,
Inviting its billows to rest.

When like weed of the desolate wilderness toss'd
Round some darksome and fathomless cave,
Desponding, I wander each pleasureless coast;
Or buffet the breast of the wave;

Then like a fair star on the brow of the steep,
The hopes of my bosom to save,

Thy beacon of light shall irradiate the deep,
And teach me to bear and to brave.

Thou know'st not my passion, and never shalt know Who sends this confession to thee;

Soon mountains shall tower, and the ocean shall flow
Between my beloved, and me.

But yet I am glad, that thou never can'st grieve
O'er him, whom no more thou shalt see;
And the pangs of affection perhaps 'twill relieve,
To think that from such thou art free!

Farewell, and when I am for ever forgot,
May the essence of feelings refined,
The motionless quiet of peace be thy lot,
The slumberless sunshine of mind!
May thy home be an Eden, an ark of repose,
And the praise of the world be combin'd
With the bliss, that from innocent purity flows,
And the wishes I leave thee behind!