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TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27 AUGUST, 1825.

THOU wak'st from happy sleep to play
With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day
Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye;—
Long be it thus-life's early stream
Should still reflect the sky.

Yet ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit's wings,

Now in thy morn forget not Him

From whom each pure thought springs !

So in the onward vale of tears,

Where'er thy path may be,

When strength hath bow'd to evil years—

He will remember thee.

TO A YOUNGER CHILD

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 17 SEPTEMBER, 1825.

WHERE sucks the bee now?-Summer is flying,
Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying;
Violets are gone from the grassy dell,

With the cowslip-cups, where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath pass'd away-

Yet happy, fair boy! is thy natal day.

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smil'd

Ever around thee, my gentle child!

Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,

And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.

Roses may vanish, but this will stay

Happy and bright is thy natal day.

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

THERE were thick leaves above me and around,

And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep,
Amidst their aimness, and a fitful sound

As of soft showers on water-dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still,
They seem'd but pictur'd glooms-a hidden rill,
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down,
And steep'd the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,

A tale of Palestine.*-Meanwhile the bee
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,

*The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.

A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,

Blue skies, and amber sunshine-brightly free,
On filmy wings the purple dragon-fly

Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;

And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell

Where sat the lone wood-pigeon.

But ere long,

All sense of these things faded, as the spell, Breathing from that high gorgeous tale, grew strong On my chain'd soul-'twas not the leaves I heard; -A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr'd,

Through its proud floating folds-'twas not the brook, Singing in secret through its grassy glen

A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen

Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook

The burning air.-Like clouds when winds are high,

O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,

And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees.-Then the shout Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out,

Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue;

And harps were there-I heard their sounding strings, As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings.

The bright masque faded-unto life's worn track
What call'd me, from its flood of glory, back?
-A voice of happy childhood!-and they pass'd,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim trumpet's blast—
Yet might I scarce bewail the vision gone,
My heart so leapt to that sweet laughter's tone.

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