H! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, Ан In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; Nor while half-listening, mid delicious dreams, To harp and song from lady's hand and voice; Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood, On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed, Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, Now groans, and shivers the replunging bark! 66 Cling to the shrouds!" In vain! The breakers roar Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains, And lit his spirit to so bright a flame? The elevating thought of suffered pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name Of gratitude! remembrances of friend, Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. WHY need I say, Louisa dear! How glad I am to see you here, A lovely convalescent; Risen from the bed of pain and fear, The sunny showers, the dappled sky, Believe me, while in bed you lay, up How can we do without her? Besides, wnat vexed us worse, we knew, In the place where you were going: SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. WRITTEN IN GERMANY, F I had but two little wings, But in my sleep to you I fly: But then one wakes, and where am I? Sleep stays not though a monarch bids: HOMESICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. "TIS sweet to him, who all the week Through city crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, 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 doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang; This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings, Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore! ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love!" And singing, and loving-all come back together. A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER. ERE on my bed my limbs I lay, God grant me grace my prayers to say; O God! preserve my mother dear In strength and health for many a year; And O! preserve my father too, That after my last sleep I may Awake to thy eternal day! Amen. THE VISIONARY HOPE SAD He fain would frame a prayer within his breast. Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, |