TO H. C. SIX YEARS OLD. O THOU! whose fancies from afar are Thou faery voyager! that dost float, To brood on air than on an earthly stream; O blessed vision! happy child! I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality! Oh! vain and causeless melancholy ! flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow, Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks; We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn, [hare. But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted INFLUENCE OF NATURAL IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHEN- AND EARLY YOUTH. [This extract is reprinted from "The Friend."] And not a voice was idle: with the din stars, Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay,—or sportively [throng, Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous To cut across the reflex of a star, Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. THE LONGEST DAY. ADDRESSED TO LET us quit the leafy arbour, Evening now unbinds the fetters Yet by some grave thoughts attended Laura! sport, as now thou sportest, Who would check the happy feeling Yet at this impressive season, And, while shades to shades succeeding Summer ebbs ;-each day that follows He who governs the creation, In his providence, assigned Such a gradual declination To the life of human kind. Yet we mark it not ;-fruits redden, Be thou wiser, youthful maiden ! Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, Fix thine eyes upon the sea That absorbs time, space, and number; Look towards eternity' Follow thou the flowing river On whose breast are thither borne All deceived, and each deceiver, Through the gates of night and morr Through the year's successive portals; Through the bounds which many a star Marks, not mindless of frail mortals. When his light returns from far. Thus when thou with Time hast travelled Think, if thou on beauty leanest, Duty, like a strict preceptor, Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown; Choose her thistle for thy sceptre, While thy brow youth's roses crown. Grasp it,-if thou shrink and tremble, And insures those palms of honour Which selected spirits wear, Bending low before the donor, Lord of heaven's unchanging year! 30 Poems Founded on the Affections. THE BROTHERS. 'Twas one well known to him in former days, A shepherd-lad;-who ere his sixteenth year "THESE tourists, Heaven preserve us! Had left that calling, tempted to intrust needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. Is neither epitaph nor monument, His expectations to the fickle winds Among the mountains, and he in his heart The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds Between the tropics filled the steady sail, And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Tombstone nor name-only the turf we Lengthening invisibly its weary line tread Along the cloudless main, he, in those Of tiresome indolence, would often hang gray And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, Of many darling pleasures, and the love This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of "The Hurricane." When, whether it blew foul or fair, they | And, after greetings interchanged, and two now, Were brother shepherds on their native hills. They were the last of all their race: and [his heart When Leonard had approached his home, Failed in him; and, not venturing to inquire Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, Towards the church-yard he had turned aside; That, as he knew in what particular spot Such a confusion in his memory, And, oh, what joy the recollection now come Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short,-and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Planted And you, who dwell here, even among these We are not all that perish.——I remember, (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side--'tis gone-and that dark cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face Priest. Nay, sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the sameLeonard. But, surely, yonderPriest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend [tall pike That does not play you false.-On that (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be The other, left behind, is flowing still. Forfolks that wander up and down like you, thus To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate By some untoward death among the rocks: Of this rude church-yard, till the stars The ice breaks up and sweeps away a appeared, [with himself, bridge[homes! The good man might have communed A wood is felled:-and then for our own But that the stranger, who had left the A child is born or christened, a field grave, Approached; he recognised the priest at A daughter sent to service, a web spun, [once, ploughed, |