Oh! what upon this earth doth prove
So stedfast as a mother's love!

Oh! what on earth can bring relief,

Or solace, to a mother's grief!

III.

No more, my baby, shalt thou lie,
With drowsy smile, and half-shut eye,

Pillow'd upon my fostering breast,
Serenely sinking into rest!

The grave must be thy cradle now ;
The wild-flowers o'er thy breast shall grow,
While still my heart, all full of thee,

In widow'd solitude shall be.

IV.

No taint of earth, no thought of sin,
E'er dwelt thy stainless breast within;
And God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl below the deep.

Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown
Above, and found the heavenly throne,
To join that blest angelic ring,

That aye around the altar sing.

V.

Methought, when years had roll'd away,
That thou would'st be mine age's stay,
And often have I dreamt to see

The boy-the youth-the man in thee!
But thou hast past! for ever gone,
To leave me childless and alone,
Like Rachel pouring tear on tear,

And looking not for comfort here!

VI.

Farewell, my child! the dews shall fall
At morn and evening o'er thy pall;
And daisies, when the vernal year
Revives, upon thy turf appear.

The earliest snow-drop there shall spring,

And lark delight to fold his wing,

And roses pale, and lilies fair,

With perfume load the summer air !

VII.

Adieu, my babe! if life were long,
This would be even a heavier song;
But years like phantoms quickly pass,
Then look to us from Memory's glass.

Soon on Death's couch shall I recline;
Soon shall my head be laid with thine;
And sunder'd spirits meet above,
To live for evermore in love!

VERSES

TO THE

MEMORY OF ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

Lore had he found in huts where poor men lie,
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

WORDSWORTH.

SWEET, simple Poet! thou art gone!
And shall no parting tear be shed
By those to whom thy name was known
Above thy low and lonely bed?

Shall not a pilgrim, lingering by,

Gaze on thy turf, and heave a sigh?

Yes! many, many! for thy heart

Was humble as the violet low, That, shelter'd in some shady part, We only by its perfume know;

Yet genius pure, which God had given, Shone o'er thy path-a light from heaven!

'Mid poverty it cheer'd thy lot,

'Mid darkness it illumed thine eyes, And shed on earth's most dreary spot A glory borrow'd from the skies: Thine were the shows of earth and air, Of Winter dark, and Summer fair.

Before thee spread was Nature's book,
And, with a bard's enraptured glance,
By thee were seen, in glen and brook,
A limitless inheritance:

Thy ripening boyhood look'd abroad,
And saw how grand was man's abode.

Expanding with thine added days,

Thy feelings ripen'd and refine

Though none were near thy views to raise, Or train to fruit the budding mind;