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Fairies and sprites, and goblin elves we call them,
Famous for patronage of lovers true ;
For these are kindly ministers of nature
To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress;
For mercy still consorts with littleness :
Wherefore the sum of good is still the less,
So do these charitable dwarfs redress
Here are two gems :
We watched her breathing through the night, her breathing soft and
low, As in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, so slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers to eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, our fears our hopes beliedWe thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, and chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed—she had another morn than ours.
Love thy mother, little one! kiss and clasp her neck again,Hereafter she may have a son will kiss and clasp her neck in vain :
Love thy mother, little one. Gaze upon her living eyes, and mirror back her love for thee,Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs to meet them when they cannot
Gaze upon her living eyes !
Press her lips the while they glow with love that they have often
told, Hereafter thou mayst press in woe, and kiss them till thine own
Press her lips the while they glow!
It is the glory of Hood, that he was not only a master poet, but a philanthropist-he remembered the forgotten. It has been well remarked, that his greatest work is that which his poems will do for the poor. The critic already referred to remarks: “Hood was not one of those lofty and commanding minds that rise but once in an age, on the mountain ranges of which light first smiles and last lingers. He does not keep his admirers standing at gaze in distant reverence and awe. He is no cold, polished, statuesque idol of the intellect, but one of the darlings of the English heart. You never think of Hood as dead and turned to marble: statue or bust could never represent him to the imagination. It is always a real human being, with the quaintest, kindliest smile, that looks into your face, and straightway your heart is touched to open and let him in. Few names will call forth so tender a familiarity of affection as that of rare Tom Hood.” His last lines were these :
Farewell, Life! my senses swim,
Welcome, Life! the Spirit strives !
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
The subjoined plaintive and beautiful lines are part of Mrs. Maclean's (L. E. L.) poem on Night at Sea :
The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing
Has vanished from the waters, where it Aung
Tyrian or regal garniture among.
Through the slight vapour trembles each dim star ;
Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar.
The world, with one vast element omitted
Man's own especial element, the earth ;
By that great knowledge wherein power has birth.
Have I wished for you—beautiful as new,
Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through.
Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning,
Up springs the Aying-fish, like life’s false joy,
Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorning
Whose very light is fated to destroy.
Spring from the depths of an unkindly world ;
Too soon in death the scorched-up wing is furled.
thoughts of you.
Eastman, of Vermont, has given us, with daguerreotype fidelity, a little domestic picture, that is a gem for its simple pastoral beauty :The farmer sat in his easy chair, smoking his pipe of clay, While his hale old wife with busy care was clearing the dinner away:
A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes,
On her grandfather's knee was catching Aies. The old man laid his hand on her head, with a tear in his wrinkled
faceHe thought how often her mother, dead, had sat in the self-same
“ Don't smoke,” said the child,“ how it makes you cry!" The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, where the shade after
noon used to steal, The busy old wife by the open door was turning the spinning wheel,
And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree
Had plodded along to almost threeStill the farmer sat in his easy chair, while, close to his heaving
breast, The moistened brow, and the cheek so fair, of his sweet grandchild
Here is a single specimen of the vigorous verse of EBENEZER Elliott, the “poet of the poor :”—
God said—“ Let there be light !” Grim darkness felt His might,
and Aed away : Then startled seas, and mountains cold, shone forth, all bright in
blue and gold, and cried, “ 'Tis day—’tis day!” “Hail, holy light !” exclaimed the thunderous cloud that Alamed
o'er daisies white; And lo! the rose, in crimson drest, leaned sweetly on the lily's
breast, and, blushing, murmured—“ Light !" Then was the skylark born; then rose the embattled corn; then
floods of praise Flowed o’er the sunny hills of noon; and then, in silent night, the
moon poured forth her pensive lays. Lo! heaven's bright bow is glad! Lo! trees and Aowers, all clad
in glory, bloom.
LAMAN BLANCHARD's beautiful lines, The Mother's Hope, glow with all the rich tenderness of the dainty theme :
Is there, when the winds are singing in the happy summer-time, When the raptured air is ringing with earth's music heavenward
springing, Forest chirp, and village chime, -is there, of the sounds that Aoat Unsighingly, a single note, half so sweet, and clear, and wild,
As the laughter of a child ?
Organ finer, deeper, clearer, though it be a stranger's tone,
For it answereth to his own;