The unrelenting tyrant, who, unmoved, To spill the blood of innocent like thee, All smiling in his face, and from a parent's knee! Adieu! fair infant; be it thine to prove The joy, of which an earnest thou wert sent; Raise up the mind with age and sorrow bent Assuage with filial care a parent's fears, t; Awake her heart to joy, and wipe away her tears! CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD. WORDSWORTH. LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild; Mock chastisement and partnership in play. And as a faggot sparkles on the hearth Not less if unattended and alone Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity; Even so this happy creature of herself Is all-sufficient; solitude to her Is blithe society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs. Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's Forth startled from the fern where she lay couched ; Unthought of, unsuspected, as the stir Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers; TO A CHILD PLAYING. R. C. FRENCH. DEAR boy, thy momentary laughter rings Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free. From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow, So be it ever-and thou, happy boy, When time, that takes these wild delights away, Gives thee a measure of sedater joy, Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay ; Then may that joy, like this, to outward things Black wood, 1835. SONNET. SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART. "On the first day of spring we buried her; They to the summer's sun, She to the throne of God!" AGAIN God's messenger hath visited To an untimely grave. And yet, though fled And we walk cheered, though tearful, down our path. Currah, Easter-day, 1834. LINES On the Christening of my Brother's Infant Son, Feb. 21, 1839. THE HON. MRS. NORTON. THERE is a sound of laughter, light and gay, The grouping of glad friends each other meeting: And in the midst art THOU-thou tiny flower, Whose coming hath so cheered this wintry hour! Helpless thou liest, young blossom of our love! The sunshine of fond smiles around thee beaming, Blessings called down on thee from Heaven above, And every heart about thy future dreaming :Meek peace and utter innocence are now The sole expression of thy baby brow. Helpless thou liest, thy little waxen face Eagerly scanned by our inquiring glances, Hoping some lovely likeness there to trace, Which fancy finds, and so thy worth enhances, ing with thought mature and power of mind ant features-yet so faintly lined. |