POEMS.

TO A COLD BEAUTY.

LADY, would'st thou heiress be

To winter's cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free,

Thou dost still lock up thy heart: Thou that should'st outlast the snow But in the whiteness of thy brow?

Scorn and cold neglect are made

For winter gloom and winter wind; But thou wilt wrong the summer air, Breathing it to words unkind: Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song! When the little buds unclose,

Red, and white, and pied, and blue; And that virgin flower, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew,—
Wilt thou lock thy bosom up
With no jewel in its cup?

Let not cold December sit

Thus in love's peculiar throne; Brooklets are not prison'd now,

But crystal frosts are all agone; And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May!

RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened:-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veil'd a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ;-
Thus she stood amid the stooks
Praising God with sweetest looks:-

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean
Where I reap thou should'st but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand;
She might have stayed a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill;
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plovers answer shrill :
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread:
And I may even walk a waste

That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,--
But never one like mine;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine:
But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn:
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses-red and white;
The violets and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing;

And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing:

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy!

BALLAD.

SHE'S up and gone, the graceless girl!
And robb'd my failing years;
My blood before was thin and cold,
But now 'tis turn'd to tears:

ODE.

OH! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, "O rus!"
Of London pleasures sick :

Well ink'd with black and red ;

OH when I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;-

But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,

And careful thoughts the string!

My marbles once my bag was storedNow I must play with Elgin's lord,

With Theseus for a taw! My playful horse has slipp'd his string, Forgotten all his capering,

And harness'd to the law!

My kite-how fast and far it flew !
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew

My pleasure from the sky!
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes,
The tasks I wrote-my present dreams
Will never soar so high.

My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall:

My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a whoop,
And seldom with a call!

My football's laid upon the shelf;I am a shuttlecock myself,

The world knocks to and froMy archery is all unlearn'd, And grief against myself has turn'd My arrows and my bow!

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship's an endless task,

My head's ne'er out of school.-
My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight,
I have too many foes to fight,

And friends grown strangely cool!

The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake

It makes me shrink and sighOn this I will not dwell and hang, The changeling would not feel a pang Though these should meet his eye!

No skies so blue, or so serene
As then ;-no leaves look half so green
As clothed the playground tree!
All things I loved are alter'd so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!

Oh, for the garb that mark'd the boyThe trowsers made of corduroy,

It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head!

Oh, for the riband round the neck!
The careless dog's ears apt to deck
My book and collar both!
How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,

A boy of larger growth?

Oh, for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky blue
That wash'd my sweet meals down;
The master even!-and that small Turk
That fagg'd me !-worse is now my work:
A fag for all the town!

Oh, for the lessons learn'd by heart! Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again; I'd kiss the rod," and be resign'd Beneath the stroke-and even find Some sugar in the cane!

Th' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The Fairy Tales in schooltime read,

By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun !The angel form that always walk'd In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd Exactly like Miss Brown!

The "omne bene"-Christmas come! The prize of merit won for home

Merit had prizes then!

But now I write for days and days-
For fame-a deal of empty praise,
Without the silver pen!

Then home, sweet home!-the crowded coach-
The joyous shout-the loud approach-

The winding horns like rams'!
The meeting sweet that made me thrill-
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,

No "satis" to the "jams!"

When that I was a tiny boy,
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind-
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

TOM WOODGATE.

TOM! are you still within this land
Of livers still on Hastings' sand,
Or roaming on the waves,-
Or has some billow o'er you roll'd,
Jealous that earth should lap so bold
A seaman in her graves?

Ay, while I write, mayhap your head Is sleeping on an oyster-bed

I hope 'tis far from truth!With periwinkle eyes;-your bone Beset with mussels, not your own, And corals at your tooth!

Oh, no-I hope the old brown eye
Still watches ebb and flood and sky;
That still the old brown shoes
Are sucking brine up-pumps indeed!
Your tooth still full of ocean weed,
Or Indian-which you choose.

I like you, Tom! and in these lays
Give honest worth its honest praise,
No puff at honour's cost;

For though you met these words of mine,
All letter-learning was a line

You, somehow, never cross'd!

Mayhap, we ne'er shall meet again,
Except on that Pacific main,

Beyond this planet's brink ;

Yet as we erst have braved the weather,
Still we may float a while together,
As comrades on this ink!

Many a scudding gale we've had
Together, and, my gallant iad,

Some perils we have pass'd;

When huge and black the wave career'd, And oft the giant surge appear'd

The master of our mast:

'Twas thy example taught me how To climb the billow's hoary brow, Or cleave the raging heap

To bound along the ocean wild, With danger only as a child,

The waters rock'd to sleep.

Oh, who can tell that brave delight,
To see the hissing wave in might
Come rampant like a snake!
To leap his horrid crest, and feast
One's eyes upon the briny beast,
Left couchant in the wake!

The simple shepherd's love is still
To bask upon a sunny hill,

The herdsman roams the vale-
With both their fancies I agree;
Be mine the swelling, scooping sea,
That is both hill and dale!

Methinks I see the shining beach;
The merry waves, each after each,
Rebounding o'er the flints;-

I spy the grim preventive spy!
The jolly boatman standing nigh!

The maids in morning chintz!

And there they float-the sailing craft! The sail is up-the wind abaft

The ballast trim and neat.
Alas! 'tis all a dream-a lie!
A printer's imp is standing by
To haul my mizen sheet!

My tiller dwindles to a pen-
My craft is that of bookish men-

My sale-let Longman tell!
Adieu, the wave! the wind! the spray!
Men-maidens-chintzes-fade away!
Tom Woodgate, fare thee well!