Yet never, Scadbury! to forget, The dearest spot I 've looked on yet, Where I have spent, in weal or woe, "HERSELF A FAIRER FLOWER." Written for a Friend, who had some difficulty in expressing his mind to a Lady: the Lines were presented, and understood. SHE planted me that lovely flower, She watched it day by day, She kept the blast away. And now the Summer season's come, "Tis full in bloom, and all for me, Come Autumn, and I'll take the tree, And gently plant it there: And oh, the joy, to watch it grow, She watch'd it so, the lovely maid, Oh, might I say it! might I too, To bloom when that shall wither! TO HIS WIFE. IN SICKNESS. I SAID, I would love thee in want or in wealth, The troth I have plighted I never may break. Aye, sickness;-I know it, long day upon day, But the sun must come through, and the clouds melt away; Aye, sickness;-but sickness, it touches the heart The rose smells as sweetly in sunshine and air, I have loved thee in sickness; I'll love thee in health; THE GARDEN'S REFUSE. TO THE SAME. THOU askest a nosegay: the garden is reft; They have pilfer'd these ages past, all at their ease. The poets have stolen the lily and rose For the cheeks of their mistresses, time out of mind; And the bay and the laurel, as every one knows, Are theirs round their own flowing tresses to bind. The myrtle ('twas Venus's shrub) gives its leaves, The holly and mistletoe's dark glossy sheen We place in our halls in the cold Christmas tide; ; The maid that 's forsaken must crown her with willow We scatter the poppy on sickness's pillow; A chaplet of oak is the meed of the chief, Who hath rescued his fellow in battle and blood; Then, ask for a nosegay! the garden is reft; The choice of the flowers, the prime of the trees All rifled no! yet there's a floweret left, May I gather it for thee?-the gentle heart's-ease. ON THE BIRTH OF HIS SISTER'S INFANT. COULD I, like gifted seer, turn At will from things that are, And through the mist of years discern I would not know an empire's date, But I would learn thy humbler fate, And yet, thou may'st be mark'd by Heaven For deeds of deathless fame; And I, a worthless bard, be given To sanctify thy name. Perchance, in after years, thine eye Perchance the field shall be thy care; And, in the day of woe, Thou 'It bid thy shouting myriads spare The remnant of the foe. Yet far more happy, as I deem, Let others emulate at will The torrent's wasting force; Be thou the fertilizing rill, Whose soft, and silent course Leaves nothing for the traveller's eye He died at the age of two years. ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT NEPHEW. TO HIS SISTER. (MS.) "WHILES there was hope, I wept and pray'd; For, weeping, praying, still I said, Who knows if He above may spare The child is dead. How short an hour In vain thy weeping, praying?—No ; Is there not virtue in this hour? 'Tis then that faith best shows its worth, As the bruis'd leaf breathes fragrance forth. |