That only serves to make us grieve,
With oft and tedious taking leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismiss'd;
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while
And tells the jest without the smile.
O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule,
And sun thee in the light of happy faces,
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it;-so
Do these upbear the little world below
Of education-Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks, I see them group'd in seemly show,
The straighten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that, touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow.
O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive;
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,
Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies ;
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love.
Yet haply there will come a weary day,
When overtask'd at length
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting does the work of both.
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
Its balmy lips the Infant blest
Relaxing from its mother's breast,
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh
Of innocent Satiety!
And such my Infant's latest sigh!
O tell, rude stone! the passer by,
That here the pretty babe doth lie,
Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.
TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED
MY INFANT TO ME
Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
All I had been, and all my child might be!
But when I saw it on its mother's arm,
And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)
Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm
Impress'd a Father's kiss: and all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seem'd to see an angel form appear-
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!
So for the mother's sake the child was dear,
And dearer was the mother for the child.
The Shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they check'd their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!
While, sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.
She listen'd to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she press'd;
And while she cried, The Babe is mine!
The milk rush'd faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story-
Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory?
And is not War a youthful King,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.
"Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And therefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child!
“A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire, and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow's toil had won; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.
"Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I'm poor and of a low estate,
The mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born."
Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve!
In beauty's light you glide along:
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your voice, as seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives
This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a voice there lives;
It bids you hear the tale of woe.
When sinking low the sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save,
Fair, as the bosom of the swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave,
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!
Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night!
Mother of wildly-working visions! hail!
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil;
And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud
Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high;
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
Thy placid lightning o'er the awaken'd sky.
Ah! such is Hope; as changeful and as fair!
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight;
Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair:
But soon emerging in her radiant might,
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.
TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.
On the wide level of a mountain's head
(I knew not where, but 'twas some fairy place)
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,
A sister and a brother!
This far outstript the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind:
For he, alas! is blind!
O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd,
And knows not whether he be first or last.
THIS talented female was born in Ireland. in 1773, and was married in early life to Mr. Tighe, a gentleman of family in Wexford. But this union was not a happy one; and, in addition to domestic afflictions, she was severely tried for several years with sickness and despondency of spirits, and deprived of the use of her limbs, so that her poems had to be dictated to an amanuensis. The writing of verses, however, formed her greatest solace and amusement; and so little was she anxious for fame, that her chief poem, Psyche, was printed only for private circulation among her friends. It was published, however, after her death, and the celebrity which it acquired was rapid and extensive, until other distinguished poetesses succeeded, in whose superior attractions her works graually faded from public remembrance. Mrs. Tighe died at Woodstock, in reland, on the 24th of March, 1810.
WRITTEN FOR HER NIECE, S. K.
Sweetest! if thy fairy hand
Cull for me the latest flowers,
Smiling hear me thus demand
Blessings for thy early hours:
Be thy promised spring as bright
As its opening charms foretell;
Graced with Beauty's lovely light,
Modest Virtue's dearer spell.
Be thy summer's matron bloom
Blest with blossoms sweet, like thee;
May no tempest's sudden doom
Blast thy hope's fair nursery!
May thine autumn, calm, serene,
Never want some lingering flower,
Which Affection's hand may glean,
Though the darkling mists may lour!
Sunshine cheer thy wintry day,
Tranquil conscience, peace, and love;
And thy wintry nights display
Streams of glorious light above.
ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON, WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK.
Odours of Spring, my sense ye charm
With fragrance premature;
And, 'mid these days of dark alarm,
Almost to hope allure.
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