Poems of Childhood.

My Harp.

WRITTEN AT THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE.

Awake my Harp! nor longer sleep when fair
Columbia calls-bright star of Liberty!
O! bind her brow with bright poetic wreath,
Or shame Eternal haunt thee like a ghost
Whiles Time doth ride his years unto their graves,
And iron tongue with proclamation loud
Thunders to Earth my country's Epitaph:
"Columbia had no Poet and she died."

HARP.

I'm yet too young! The ripening breath of Age
Hath not yet breath'd autumnal stores on me;
But when sublim'd with Nature's melody,
I'll wake to show proud England's boasting Muse
This truth indeed:- "'Tis not Columbia's land
Where Genius sickens and where Fancy dies."

Childhood.

WRITTEN ALSO AT THIRTEEN.

O! I am now a jolly-romping boy,

In clean, white slips I dress all nice and coy;
And little tiny shoes all over red

Just for to on my mammy's carpet tread :-
O! how I do jump and how I do play
Till all the light hours fly fleeting away!
Then down on the hearth I tumble apace
And sweetly lay sleeping right jam on my face!
The cricket's chirping song close by my head,
Says plainly thus: "This child hath gone to bed."
My Mother sings: "Sleep on-sleep on my boy,
Thy father's hope, thy mother's constant joy."
Then, straight by gentle Dreams am I caress'd,
In all the fairy forms of Spirits dress'd.

Stormy Weather.

The flowers are dying—

Summer's loves!

The bright hours flying-
Cooing doves!

Now Nature pours her tears in showers,
Or crowns with snow the barren bowers;
The nightingale no longer sings,

No music thro' the woodlands rings;

All sweetest birds with merry jay
On painted pinions flee away,

And leave Man here to breast the storm,
Or build a fire to keep him warm,—

To warm his toes and shins together,

While fell without, raves-STORMY WEATHER.

Winter's Near.

Chill Winds are sighing
'Winter's Near,'

While Autumn's flying

With a tear!

And in the bird-forsaken bowers

Romp not the rosy-footed Hours;
The garden fades, the woodland moans,
And in her rock shrill Echo groans;
Faint whisperings run along the vales,
Low-breathing to the sickly dales:-

'Now, crown of glory falls from Autumn's head, And Nature's loveliness lies withering-dead.'

Winter Weather.

The year was flying

With a groan,
And Zephyr sighing

With a moan,

When North-winds bellow'd out replying:'Frail Nature's loveliness is dying!

The valley's glow, the landscape's smiles
Are solitude in spirit wilds;

The owlet's hoot and jackal's yell
And panther's cry fill all the dell;

And snow and blow and frost and freeze,
Make bare the fields and strip the trees,
While cold and chill and storm together
Howl out to man of WINTER WEATHER.'

Winter Comes.

[A BOMBAST.]

Dread Winter comes-beware!

Beware the foe!

Or Nature's glory where?

Lain low-lain low.

He comes he comes with power and might The cheek of Loveliness to blight;

With storms and snows and frosts and rains

To bind our mother Earth in chains!
Fell Winter comes for war and fight
Creation's beauty all to blight!

Old Gray-beard comes! Let man beware!
To freeze our toes,--

Tyrant compel-our shoes to wear,
And wipe our nose!

Winter's Here.

Autumn said dying,

'Winter's near';

North came replying,

'Winter's Here!

The Landscape's lovely smile to nip,
And blight the rose on Beauty's lip;
With frost and snow and wind and chill,
To freeze the river, run and rill,

To make the South, the frozen Pole,
Where howling Storms and Tempests roll-
OLD WINTER'S HERE!'