Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee.
GOLDSMITH.
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.
BYRON.
THERE is joy, there is joy, in this land of the vine,
'Mid the wrecks of the past in whose shade I recline
There are sounds to enliven, and music in all,
In the voice of the breeze and the peasant boy's call.
There is joy in this land, when its maidens pass by, With the long jetty hair and the dark rolling eye, And the soul leaps to life, when that eye's ebon tinge Darts a volume of light through its shadowy fringe.
There is joy in the valley, and joy on the hill ;
But the heart of the stranger is lonely, and still
'Mid the brightness of summer, the freshness of spring,
To the home of his childhood his spirit takes wing.
When the mirth of the feaster is ended, and night
With its soft slumber closes a day of delight,
Still his thoughts are of home, and his soul ever seems
'Mid the haunts of his childhood to wander in dreams.
Still his thoughts are of home, and its image ador'd, With the first waking breath by the fond spirit pour'd Comes the name of a lov'd one awaiting him there, And that name-'tis a Mother's-it mingles with
COME to me, thy playful tresses throwing
Their jetty ringlets o'er thy snowy vest!
Come to me, thy heart with love o'erflowing,
Come, sweet one, come, and I shall be at rest.
Bring me not the wide earth's golden treasures,
Nor gems that erst beneath the wave did shine;
Bring thy love, the source of all life's pleasures,
And bring for gems those laughing eyes of thine.
Gentle flames, with early passion burning,
And sunny hopes that tell of bliss to be,-
Truant thoughts with new delight returning,-
I give thee all-Come, sweet one, come to me!
LINES ON A CHILD SLEEPING.
Dans l'alcove sombre
Près d'un humble autel,
L'enfant dort à l'ombre
Du lit maternel.
Tandis qu'il repose,
Sa paupière rose
Pour la terre close,
S'ouvre pour le ciel.
FAIR child! how calmly art thou slumbering,
Beneath thy guardian angel's viewless wing!
How lovely thy repose, and soft the seeming
Of that far land in which thy soul is dreaming!
Would I might sleep as thou art sleeping now,
With rosy freshness on the cheek, and brow
As smooth and fair as thine, and wake, like thee,
From life's o'ermast'ring cares and passions free!
Pure are thy feelings all; each thought of thine
Springs, full of artless joy, from nature's shrine,
While, on thy opening virtues, as they rise,
Affection builds its holiest prophecies.
And she that watches near,-whose pride thou art,—
The deep delight of her fond, fluttering heart,
No words may measure; in thy fair young face
Her quick eyes image many a future grace;
While Love unvarying sums up all in thee,
Its happy past, its dreams of bliss to be.
I linger, pleas'd to see thee slumb'ring there,
And join that fond one in her spirit's prayer:
May all her kindness be repaid by thine,
And thy affection solace her decline!
May after years the bright fulfilment see
Of all that hope has promis'd! mayst thou be,
E'en to life's end, a child, as now thou art,
In love, in truth, in purity of heart!
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