RODERIGO AND JULIAN.

Her form, her voice, all hast thou banisht from me, Nor dare I, wretched as I am! recal

Those solaces of every grief erewhile.

I stand abased before insulting crime,

I falter like a criminal myself;

The hand that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels,
That held thy steeds erect and motionless
As molten statues on some palace-gate,
Shakes as with palsied age before thee now.
Gone is the treasure of my heart for ever,
Without a father, mother, friend, or name.
Daughter of Julian!-Such was her delight-
Such was mine too! what pride more innocent,
What surely less deserving pangs like these,
Than springs from filial and parental love!
Debarr'd from every hope that issues forth
To meet the balmy breath of early life,
Her sadden'd days, all cold and colourless,
Will stretch before her their whole weary length
Amid the sameness of obscurity.

She wanted not seclusion to unveil

Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell;
She found it in all places, at all hours:

While to assuage my labours, she indulged
A playfulness that shunn'd a mother's eye,
Still to avert my perils there arose
A piety that even from me retired.

SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies,

Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew,

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

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 range and glare!

But cheerful and unchang'd 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,

KEBLE.

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."

CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS.

"A joyful and a pleasant thing it is to be thankful."

WHY SO stately, maiden fair,

Rising in thy nurse's arms
With that condescending air;
Gathering up thy queenly charms,

CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS.

Like some gorgeous Indian bird,

Which, when at eve the balmy copse is stirr'd,
Turns the glowing neck to chide

Th' irreverent foot-fall, then makes haste to hide
Again its lustre deep

Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep?

Not as yet she comprehends

How the tongues of men reprove,

But a spirit o'er her bends,

Train'd in heaven to courteous love,
And with wondering grave rebuke
Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look.-
Graceless one, 'tis all of thee,

Who for her maiden bounty, full and free,
The violet from her gay

And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay.

Therefore, lo, she opens wide.

Both her blue and wistful eyes,

Breathes her grateful chant, to chide
Our too tardy sympathies.

Little babes and angels bright

They muse, be sure, and wonder, day and night,

How th' all-holy Hand should give,

The sinner's hand in thanklessness receive.

We see it and we hear,

But wonder not for why? we feel it all too near.

Not in vain, when feasts are spread,

To the youngest at the board

Call we to incline the head,

And pronounce the solemn word.

Not in vain they clasp and raise

The soft, pure fingers in unconscious praise,--
Taught, perchance, by pictur'd wall