Oh! queenly fair Summer, thy worshippers all Have fled and foregone thee,-right merry in

hall

Their laughter is ringing;-ah! little I trow Do they ponder how, lonely beneath the bare bough,

Unwept thou art dying.

The voices that hymned thee so gaily of yore, The happy bird-voices, their music is o'er,Save the robin's, who singeth of Winter with glee,

And the rook's, who caws loud on the stormshaken tree,

As he flaps his dark pinion.

There are voices, but savage and wild ones, alas!
The roaring of rivers, as foaming they pass,
The plashing of rain, and the groan, deep and
low,

Of the oak, as his giant limbs toss to and fro 'Neath the wind's strong dominion.

Oh! queenly fair Summer, fierce Winter, ere long,

Will sweep o'er the hills with his turbulent throng

A LAST SONG OF SUMMER.

119

Of blasts and rough hail storms, and finding thee

there,

Will freeze thy warm blood with his icy fixed stare,

And laugh as thou diest.

And when thou art dead, with a false look of

woe,

He will wind thee perchance in a death sheet of

snow,

And calling around him that turbulent throng, They will howl forth a requiem, dreary and long, O'er the grave where thou liest.

But heed not, fair Summer, sleep softly awhile,Sleep softly, and dream of the sun's loving smile; They rule not for ever, that stern companieOld Winter, one day, shall lie crownless like thee,

Time-wasted and hoary.

Oh! heed not, and weep not, sleep softly awhile, And still in thy dreams feel the sun's loving

smile;

When those dreams are all ended, thy waking may show

The sun on thy face, and the earth singing low, And the birth of thy glory.

T. WESTWOOD.

THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD.

THEY tell me thou art come from a far world, Babe of my bosom! that these little arms, Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er— That through those fringed lids we see the soul Steeped in the blue of its remembered home; And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they

say,

Whispering to thee-and 'tis then I see
Upon thy baby lips that smile of Heaven!
And what is thy far errand, my fair child?
Why away, wandering from a home of bliss,
To find thy way, through darkness, home again?
Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky?
Is there betwixt the cherub that thou wert,
The cherub and the angel thou may'st be,
A life's probation in this sadder world?
Art thou, with memory of two things only,
Music and light, left upon earth astray,
And by the watchers at the gate of heaven,
Looked for with fear and trembling?

God! who gavest

Into my guiding hand this wanderer,

To lead her through a world, whose darkling

paths

THE LOVED OF EARLY DAYS.

121

I tread with steps so faltering-leave not me
To bring her to the gates of Heaven, alone!
I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on-
The angels who now visit her in dreams!
Bid them be near her pillow, till in death
The closed eyes look upon thy face once more!
And be the light and music, which the world
Borrows of Heaven, and which her infant sen e
Hails with sweet recognition, be to hr
A voice to call her upward, and a lamp
To lead her lost steps to thee.

WILLIS.

THE LOVED OF EARLY DAYS.

THE loved of early days!

Where are they?—where?

Not on the shining braes,

The mountains bare ;

Not where the regal streams
Their foam-bells cast-

Where childhood's time of dreams
And sunshine past.

Some in the mart, and some

In stately halls,

With the ancestral gloom

Of ancient walls;

Some where the tempest sweeps

The desert waves;

Some where the myrtle weeps

O'er Roman graves.

And pale young faces gleam
With solemn eyes;

Like a remembered dream

The dead arise;

In the red track of war

The restless sweep;

In sunlit graves afar

The loved ones sleep.

The braes are bright with flowers,
The mountain streams
Foam past me in the showers

Of sunny gleams,

But the light hearts that cast

A glory there

In the rejoicing past,

Where are they?-where?

R. MILLER.