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The mother turn'd-a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud, yet restless eye.
But drops that would not stay for pride,
From that dark eye gush'd free,
As pressing his pale brow, he cried,
"Forgotten! e'en by thee!

"Am I so changed?—and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have play'd—
This brow hath been all bathed in dew,
From wreaths which thou hast made.
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sung one vesper strain-

My thoughts are dim with clouds of care-
Tell me those words again!

"Life hath been heavy on my head;
I come, a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here."

-She gazed-till thoughts that long had slept,
Shook all her thrilling frame-

She fell upon his neck, and wept,

And breathed her brother's name.

Her rother's name!-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,

That came, the bitter world to flee,

A stranger to his own?

-He was the bard of gifts divine, To sway the hearts of men; He of the song for Salem's shrine, He of the Sword and Pen!

TO THE POET WORDSWORTH,

THINE is a strain to read amongst the hills,
The old and full of voices-by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound-for in its course

Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hush'd the woods with all their birds,

There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet As antique music, link'd with household words. While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around,
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy!-thou art e'en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie-
Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee,
Bright, healthful waves flow forth, to each glad
wanderer free!

THE SONG OF THE CURFEW.

HARK! from the dim church-tower,
The deep, slow curfew's chime!
A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!

Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth's flame
In his children's eyes make light.

Sadly and sternly heard

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, Which had cheer'd the board, with the mirthful word,

And the red wine's foaming flow

Until that sullen, booming knell,

Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit fell,
With a weight, and with a chain.

Woe for the wanderer then

In the wild-deer's forests far!
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him as a star.

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