Why come they not? why comes not she
From whom thy will removes me?
O does she love me-love me still?

I know my mother loves me !
Then send her soon! and with her send
The brethren of my bosom !
My sisters too! Lord, let them all
Bloom round the parted blossom!
The only pang I could not bear
Was leaving them behind me:
I cannot bear it. Even in heaven
The tears of parting blind me!"

BIGOTRY.

WHEN calm minds strongly shoot into the night
Their shafts of lightning, no roused hamlet screams;
But darkness dies, pierced through and through with

light,

That casts in silence round its useful beams.

Not so, when Zealots twang into the dark,

Flight after flight, their mischief-whizzing spears;
Though, thunder-wing'd, they hit or miss the mark,
They never fail to fire their own long ears,
Which blaze with splendour not to be endured,

Except by them whose barns and corn-ricks are insured.

DON AND ROTHER.

AGAIN we meet, where often we have met,
Dear Rother! native Don!

We meet again, to talk, with vain regret,
Of deedless aims! and years remember'd yet-
The past and gone!

We meet again-perchance to meet no more!
O Rivers of the heart!

I hear a voice, unvoyaged billows o'er,
Which bids me hasten to their pathless shore,
And cries, "Depart!"

"Depart!" it cries. "Why linger on the stage
Where virtues are veil'd crimes?

Have I not read thee, even from youth to age?
Thou blotted book, with only one bright page!
Thy honest rhymes !

"Depart, pale Drone! What fruit-producing flower Hast thou rear'd on the plain?

What useful moments count'st thou in thine hour? What victim hast thou snatch'd from cruel power? What tyrant slain?"

I will obey the power whom all obey.

Yes, Rivers of the heart!

O'er that blind deep, where morning casts no ray
To cheer the oarless wanderer on his way,

I will depart.

But first, O Rivers of my childhood! first
My soul shall talk with you;

For on your banks my infant thoughts were nursed;
Here from the bud the spirit's petals burst,

When life was new.

Before my fingers learn'd to play with flowers,
My feet through flowers to stray;

Ere my tongue lisp'd, amid your dewy bowers,
Its first glad hymn to Mercy's sunny showers,
And air, and day;

When, in my mother's arms, an infant frail,
Along your windings borne,

My blue eye caught your glimmer in the vale,
Where halcyons darted o'er your willows pale,
On wings like morn.

Ye saw my feelings round that mother grow,
Like green leaves round the root!

Then thought, with danger came, and flower'd like woe! But deeds, the fervent deeds that blush and glow,

Are Virtue's fruit.

From infancy to youth; from schoolboy days,

When life with stones and flowers

Sports, like the stream that with the sunbeam plays Till age counts fearfully his number'd days—

We waste our powers.

What doth the man but what the child hath done?

We live, we talk, we move!

The best of all who prate beneath the sun;
The praised of all who smile, and talk, and run;
But live and love.

And if the best are like the useless gem
That shines in idle state;

Heavy, on those who crush the useful stem-
Heavy will fall the hand of God on them
Who live and hate!

Who bruise the weak, but bind no broken reed;
Who know not ruth nor shame;

Who, flowerless, ban the flower, to plant the weed;
And curse the toiling worms on whom they feed,
In God's great name!

Can I not crush them? No. Then, warning voice,
Teach me to welcome thee!

I cannot crush them. Let me then rejoice
Because thou call'st; and make my fate my choice-
Bound and yet free.

Is it not love, to loathe the loveless? Yea,
'Tis love like God's to man!

The love of angels for their God!--Away!
Such love alone repayeth those who pay-
No other can.

They love not God, who do not hate man's foes,
With hatred-not like mine-

But deep as Hell and blacker. To loathe those
Who blast the hope of freedom as it blows,
Is love divine.

Ah! many a blossom of the holy tree
Hath blossom'd but to fade!

Poland! the tears of nations flow for thee!
Thy bud of late redemption, Italy,

In dust is laid!

But hath no hope cheer'd man's despair since first

I trod thy margin, Don?

Yea, mighty links of evil's chain are burst;

And they who curse, and will not bless, accursed Fall, one by one.

Though Poland bleeds where Kosciusko died,
Hark! truth-taught millions say,

To thrones, crime-sceptred, "Lo, you are defied!"
And, at my birth, Redemption's angel cried,
"America!"