Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,

They pity me, and not my grief.

Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend!

ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER DORA,

ON BEING REMINDED THAT. SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16.

1804. — 1815.

HAST thou then survived

Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
The most forlorn one life of that bright star,
The second glory of the Heavens?—Thou hast ;
Already hast survived that great decay,

That transformation through the wide earth felt,
And by all nations. In that Being's sight
From whom the Race of human kind proceed,
A thousand years are but as yesterday;
And one day's narrow circuit is to Him
Not less capacious than a thousand years.

But what is time? What outward glory? Neither
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend

Through "heaven's eternal year." Yet hail to Thee,
Frail, feeble Monthling! — by that name, methinks,

ΙΟ

Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth,
Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,
And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,
Or to the churlish elements exposed
On the blank plains,

the coldness of the night,
Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face
Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned,
Would, with imperious admonition, then
Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
Thine infant history, on the minds of those
Who might have wandered with thee. - Mother's love,
Nor less than mother's love in other breasts,
Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed,
Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
Doth all too often harshly execute
For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds
Where fancy hath small liberty to grace
The affections, to exalt them or refine;
And the maternal sympathy itself,
Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie
Of naked instinct, wound about the heart.
Happier, far happier, is thy lot and ours!
Even now to solemnize thy helpless state,
And to enliven in the mind's regard
Thy passive beauty - parallels have risen,
Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect,
Within the region of a father's thoughts,
Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky.

And first; thy sinless progress, through a world,
By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed,

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Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds
Moving untouched in silver purity,

And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom.
Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain:
But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn
With brightness! leaving her to post along,
And range about, disquieted in change,
And still impatient of the shape she wears.
Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe,
That will suffice thee; and it seems that now
Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;
Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st
In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon
Hath this conception, grateful to behold,
Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er
By breathing mist; and thine appears to be
A mournful labor, while to her is given

Hope, and a renovation without end.

- That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,

To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen;
Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports

The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers
Thy loneliness: or shall those smiles be called
Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore
This untried world, and to prepare thy way
Through a strait passage, intricate and dim?
Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs,
Which, when the appointed season hath arrived,
Joy, as her holiest language shall adopt;

And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own.

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THE SMALL CELANDINE.

1804. - 1807.

THERE is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,

That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain
And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun himself, 't is out again!

;

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,

In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed
And recognized it, though an altered form,
Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

I stopped, and said with inly muttered voice,
"It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:
This neither is its courage nor its choice,

But its necessity in being old.

The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;

It cannot help itself in its decay;

Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue."
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.

To be a Prodigal's Favorite — then, worse truth,
A Miser's Pensioner behold our lot!

O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth

Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

IO

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ODE TO DUTY.

"Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eò perductus, ut non tantum rectè facere possim, sed nisi rectè facere non possim."

STERN Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law

When empty terrors overawe;

From vain temptations dost set free;

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth :

Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;

Who do thy work, and know it not :

Oh! if through confidence misplaced

ΙΟ

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may

hold

Even now, who, not unwisely bold,

Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

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