I heard them name my father's death,
His home and tomb alike the wave;
And I was early taught to weep,
Beside my youthful mother's grave.
I wish I could recall one look,—
But only one familiar tone;
If I had aught of memory,
I should not feel so all alone.
My heart is gone beyond the grave,
In search of love I cannot find,
Till I could fancy soothing words
Are whisper'd by the evening wind:
gaze upon the watching stars,
So clear, so beautiful above,
Till I could dream they look on me
With something of an answering love.
My mother, does thy gentle eye
Look from those distant stars on me ?
Or does the wind at evening bear
A message to thy child from thee?
Dost thou pine for me, as I pine
Again a parent's love to share?
I often kneel beside thy grave,
And pray to be a sleeper there.
The vesper bell!-'tis eventide,
I will not weep, but I will pray :
God of the fatherless, 'tis Thou
Alone canst be the orphan's stay!
Earth's meanest flower, heaven's mightiest star,
Are equal to their Maker's love,
Thy will be done,"
With eyes that fix their hopes above.
CCCXLVIII. JOHN KEBLE, 1800—
REFLECTIONS ON FLOWERS.
Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies
To fill the heart's fond view ?
In childhood's sports companions gay,
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay,
Memorials prompt and true.
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.
Fall'n all beside the world of life,
How is it stain'd with fear and strife!
In reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions rage and glare!
But cheerful and unchanged the while
Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought-
Ye may be found if ye are sought,
And as we gaze we know.
Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,
And guilty man, where'er he roams,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet-
But we may taste your solace sweet,
And come again to-morrow.
Ye fearless in your nests abide
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes;
For ye could draw th' admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys:
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when he paused and own'd you good ;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew'd:
What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness.
"Live for to-day! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight.
Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,
And heaven thy morn will bless."
CCCXLIX. WINTHROP MACWORTH PRAED,
In the cottage on the moor,
With none to watch her and caress,
No arms to clasp, no voice to bless,
The witless child grew up alone,
And made all Nature's book her own.
Beautiful shade, with her tranquil air,
And her thin white arm, and her flowing hair,
And the light of her eye so boldly obscure,
And the hue of her cheeks so pale and pure!
Reason and thought she had never known,
Her heart was as cold as a heart of stone;
.So you might guess from her eye's dim rays,
And her idiot laugh, and her vacant gaze.
She wander'd about all alone on the heather,
She and the wild heath birds together,
For Lillian seldom spoke or smiled,
But she sang as sweet as a little child.
Into her song her dreams would throng,
Silly, and wild, and out of place;
And yet that wild and roving song
Entranced the soul in its desolate grace.
CCCL. GERALD GRIFFIN, 1808-1840.
Oh, sweet Adare! oh, lovely vale!
Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendour!
Nor summer sun, nor morning gale
E'er hailed a scene more softly tender.
How shall I tell the thousand charms
Within thy verdant bosom dwelling,
Where lull'd in Nature's fost'ring arms,
Soft peace abides and joy excelling.
Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn
The slumbering boughs your song awaken, Or linger o'er the silent lawn,
With odour of the harebell taken. Thou rising sun, how richly gleams
Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, O'er waving woods and bounding streams, And many a grove and glancing fountain. In sweet Adare, the jocund spring
His notes of odorous joy is breathing, The wild bird in the woodland sing,
The wildflowers in the vale are breathing. There winds the Mague, as silver clear, Among the elms so sweetly flowing, There fragrant in the early year,
While roses on the bank are blowing.
The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank,
Or dives beneath the glistening billow,
Where graceful droop and clustering dank
The osier bright and rustling willow.
The hawthorn scents the leafy dale,
In thicket lone the stag is belling,
And sweet along the echoing vale
The sound of vernal joy is swelling.
CCCLI. SIR EDWARD EARLE LYTTON BULWER LYTTON, 1803—
Talent convinces-Genius but excites;
This tasks the reason, that the soul delights.
Talent from sober judgment takes its birth,
And reconciles the pinion to the earth;
Genius unsettles with desires the mind,
Contented not till earth be left behind;
Talent, the sunshine on a cultured soil,
Ripens the fruit by slow degrees for toil.
Genius, the sudden Iris of the skies,
On cloud itself reflects its wondrous dyes :
And, to the earth, in tears and glory given,
Clasps in its airy arch the pomp of heaven!
Talent gives all that vulgar critics need,-
From its plain horn-book learn the dull to read;
Genius, the Pythian of the beautiful,
Leaves its large truths a riddle to the dull—
From eyes profane a veil the Isis screens,
And fools on fools still ask-" What Hamlet means?"
CCCLII. REV. JO. MOULTRIE, 1804
DR MERLIN AND KING ARTHUR.
He [Merlin] was admitted sans delay,
Though the whole palace was in sad confusion; Through crowds of gaping courtiers he made way
To where the king, with dressing gown and shoes on, Was gravely wasting, in great pomp, away;
He bowed and said he "hoped 'twas no intrusion, Though for so many months he had been absent— But a little vision, by his sister Mab sent,
Had told him that his majesty was ill;
So he had come directly from Caer-Mardin,
To offer the assistance of his skill,
For (though he said it) there was nought so hard in The power of blister, bolus, draught or pill,
But he could cure it-and not charge a farthing. He begged the monarch would put out his tongueHow long had this disorder on him hung?
What was his diet ?-did he sleep at night?
His pulse seemed languid-how did he digest ?—
Had he retained his usual appetite ?—
Pray, did he feel a tightness at his chest ?-
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