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Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, How like to me-how like to thee, when gentle, For then we are all alike; is't not so, Cain ? Mother, and sire, and son, our features are Reflected in each other, as they are In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, To hail his father ; while his little form Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain ! The childless cherubs well might envy thee The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain ! As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but His heart will, and thine own too. ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE

OF WALES. Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound ; (ground, Through storm and darkness yawns the rending The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd,

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ?

Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head ?
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment o'er thy boy,
Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled

The present happiness and promised joy
Which fill’d the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.

Peasants bring forth in safety. Can it be,
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored !
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
Her many griefs for ONE ; for she had pour'd
Her orisons for thee and o'er thy head
Beheld her Iris.—Thou, too, lonely lord,

And desolate consort—vainly wert thou wed !
The husband of a year! the father of the dead !

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions! How we did intrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd

Her and her hoped for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes :-'twas but a meteor

beam'd. Woe unto us, not her, for she sleeps well: The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy, hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung

Against their blind omnipotence a weight (late,Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or

These might have been her destiny; but no,
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,
Good without effort, great without a foe;
But now a bride and mother and now there!
How many ties did that stern moment tear !
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair,

Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest Thy land which loved thee so that none could love

thee best.

“Adieu, adieu ! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;
The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild seamew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land-Good night!
“ A few short hours and He will rise

To give the Morrow birth ;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother Earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ;

My dog howls at the gate.
" Come hither, hither, my little page !

Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage ?

Or tremble at the gale ?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."
• Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind :
For I have from


A mother whom I love,
And have no friend save these alone,

But thee_and One above. “My father bless'd me fervently,

Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come back again.'— “ Enough, enough, my little lad !

Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had,

Mine own would not be dry. 6 Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ?

Or shiver at the gale?”-
• Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.
My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,

What answer shall she make ?'


Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay ;
But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.
For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour ?
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear.
“ And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea :
But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me ?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands ;
But long ere I come back again,

He'd tear me where he stands.
“ With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go,

Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves !

And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves !

My native land-Good night !"

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