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The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world-
The hues of twilight—the sun's gorgeous coming-
His setting indescribable, which fills
My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him
Along that western paradise of clouds
The forest shade—the green bough-the bird's voice,
The vesper bird's which seems to sing of love,
And mingles with the song of cherubim,
As the day closes over Eden's walls ;-
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart,
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven
To gaze on it.

CAIN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SLEEPING CHILD.

He smiles and sleeps !--Sleep on And smile, thou little, young inheritor Of a world scarce less young: sleep on, and smile! Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, Which were not thine nor mine? But now sleep on ! His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, And shining lids are trembling o'er his long Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them; Half open, from beneath them the clear blue Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream Of what? Of Paradise ? -Ay! dream of it, My disinherited boy ! 'tis but a dream; For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy!

CAIN ADDRESSED BY HIS WIFE.

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 gulph 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 entrust 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.

CHILDE HAROLD'S ADIEU TO ENGLAND. " 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 my father gone,

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 liad,

Mine own would not be dry. " 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 ?'

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