TO A YOUNGER CHILD ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 17 SEPTEMBER, 1825. WHERE sucks the bee now?—Summer is flying, With the cowslip-cups, where the fairies dwell; For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled Ever around thee, my gentle child! Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, And pouring out joy on thy sunny head. AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. THERE were thick leaves above me and around, As of soft showers on water-dark and deep And steep'd the magic page wherein I read A tale of Palestine.*-Meanwhile the bee Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by; Where sat the lone wood-pigeon. *The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders. But ere long, All sense of these things faded, as the spell, Breathing from that high gorgeous tale, grew strong On my chain'd soul-'twas not the leaves I heard ; -A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr'd, Through its proud floating folds-'twas not the brook, Singing in secret through its grassy glen— A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings. The bright masque faded-unto life's worn track EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. "Now in thy youth, beseech of Him, Who giveth, upbraiding not, That his light in thy heart become not dim, And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be HUSH! 'tis a holy hour-the quiet room 1 Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads, With all their clust'ring locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night-in prayer. Gaze on,-'tis lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thoughtGaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? -Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity! 326 EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest, Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppress'd, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sunLift up your hearts!—though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes; Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe! Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from Affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower! Her lot is on you-to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain. Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things-therefore pray! |