By grief enfeebled, was I turned adrift,
Helpless as sailor cast on desert rock;
Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,
Nor dared my hand at any door to knock.
I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock
From the cross timber of an out-house hung :
Dismally tolled that night the city clock!
At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely
stung,
[frame my tongue.
Nor to the beggar's language could I

So passed another day, and so the third :
Then did I try in vain the crowd's resort.
-In deep despair, by frightful wishes
stirred.

Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There pains, which nature could no more support, [fall, With blindness linked, did on my vitals And after many interruption: short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl; Trecall. Unsought for was the help that did my life

Borne to an hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory;

Foregone the home delight of constant truth And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

Three years tis wandering, often have 1 viewed,

In tears, the sun towards that country tend
Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:
And now across this moor my steps I bend
-Oh, tell me whither-for no earthly
friend
[away,

Have I.-She ceased, and weeping turned
As if because her tale was at an end
She wept; because she had no more to say
Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit
lay.

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky :

So was it when my life began ;
So is it now I am a man :
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!

The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

STAY near me-do not take thy flight!

A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!

Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bring st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemr image to my heart,
My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey.-with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

FORESIGHT,

THAT is work of waste and ruin-
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them-here are many :
Look at it-the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you,

Pull the primrose, sister Anne !
Pull as many as you can.
-Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckow flower:
Of the lofty daffodil

Make your bed, and make your bower:
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the spring may love them :
Summer knows but little of them :
Violets, a barren kind,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
When the months of spring are fled
Hither let us bend our walk;

Larking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each withir its leafy bower;
And for that promise spare the flower!

CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD
THREE YEARS OLD.

LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;
And innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered
And take delight in its activity, [round
Even so this happy creature of herself
Is all-sufficient; solitude to her
Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay
couched;

Unthought of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow
flowers;

Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images impressed
Upon the bosom of a placid lake

ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER

EVENING.

BY A FEMALE FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.

WHAT way does the wind come? What way does he go?

He rides over the water and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height,

Which the goat cannot climb takes his sounding flight;

He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come and whither he goes
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook
And ring a sharp 'larum!-but if you
should look,
[snow
There's nothing to see but a cushion of

Round as a pillow and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
-Yet seek him,-and what shall you find
in the place?

Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner a heap of dry leaves,
That hes left, for a bed, to beggars or
thieves !

As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see

[rout, That he has been there, and made a great And cracked the branches, and strewn them about; [upright twig Heaven grant that he spare but that one That looked up at the sky so proud and big All last summer, as well you know, Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, And growls as if he would fix his claws Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle Drive them down like men in a battle; -But let him range round; he does us no harm,

We build up the fire, we're snug and warm; Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,

And burns with a clear and steady light; Books have we to read, but that halfstifled knell

Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. -Come now, we'll to bed! and when we are there [we care? He may work his own will and what shall He may knock at the door,-we ll not let him in ; [his din; May drive at the windows,-we'll laugh at Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; Here's a cozie warm house for Edward

and me.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.
BY THE SAME.

A MONTH, Sweet little ones, is passed
Since your dear mother went away,-
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

Oh, blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain.
And shouted, "Mother; come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near; "Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;-
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast:
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day,
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,-
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And all since mother went away."

To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.

-But, see, the evening star comes forth!
To bed the children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:

'Tis gone-and in a merry fit

They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I, too, infected by their mood,

I could have joined the wanton chase.

Five minutes past-and, oh, the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.