TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27 AUGUST, 1825. THOU wak'st from happy sleep to play Thou hast no heavy thought or dream Yet ere the cares of life lie dim Now in thy morn forget not Him From whom each pure thought springs ! So in the onward vale of tears, Where'er thy path may be, When strength hath bow'd to evil years— He will remember thee. 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; Yet happy, fair boy! is thy natal day. For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smil'd Ever around thee, my gentle child! Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, And pouring out joy on thy sunny head. Roses may vanish, but this will stay Happy and bright is thy natal day. AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. THERE were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep, As of soft showers on water-dark and deep A tale of Palestine.*-Meanwhile the bee *The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders. A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, Blue skies, and amber sunshine-brightly free, Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by; And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell Where sat the lone wood-pigeon. 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 The burning air.-Like clouds when winds are high, O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees.-Then the shout Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out, Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue; And harps were there-I heard their sounding strings, As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings. The bright masque faded-unto life's worn track |