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Written in GERMANY.
"Tis sweet to him who all the week
And sweet it is in summer bower,
'One's own dear children feasting round
But what is all to his delight
Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back
Before the door of his own home!
Home-sickness is no baby pang,
This feel I hourly more and more,
There's healing only in thy wings
Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore.
To a FLOWER.
By JOSEPH HUCKS.
Child of the Spring! fair opening Flower! I love thine early bloom;
To snatch thee from yon sheltering bower, Let no rude hand presume.
Yet, yet protected from the blast,
But when revolves the varying year,
When nature's rougher skies are fled,
Again thou'lt lift thy gentle head,
O say of what has pride and power
On life's low vale to boast?
Poor Flutterers! they but live their hour, Then mingle with the dust,
For so in life's delightful morn,
So swift is pass'd our little day,
To his VEIL.
Come mute remembrancer of her, the Maid,
Come and enfold my throbbing temples round,
And shroud me from the Summer's noon tide ray, While I to many a distant haven bound, Thoughtless of all but her, pursue my way.
When faint with toil and weary, I am laid,
Then will some courteous Sprite of Dreams renew
The kindred forms of her and happiness.
Go gentle Veil, and seek the spotless Fair,
Tell her in thought I visit oft the shore,
Where hope once whisper'd the impassion'd tale, And say though haply we may meet no more Still on those scenes remembrance loves to dwell.
Tell her on many a giddy height I've stood,
Tell her-but no, from thee I'll never part,
Her hands first form'd thee-come then, next my heart Thou mute memorial, be thy lov'd abode.