A LITTLE BOY LOST.

'NOUGHT loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought

A greater than itself to know.

'And, father, how can I love you

Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little bird

That picks up crumbs around the door.'

The Priest sat by and heard the child;
In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,

And all admired the priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,

'Lo, what a fiend is here!' said he: 'One who sets reason up for judge Of our most holy mystery.'

The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain :
They stripped him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place

Where many had been burned before;

The weeping parents wept in vain.

Are such things done on Albion's shore?

Ona, pale and weak,

To thy father speak!

O the trembling fear!

O the dismal care

That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!'

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.

THE SCHOOLBOY.

I LOVE to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me:
O what sweet company!

But to go to school in a summer morn‚—
O it drives all joy away!

Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.

Ah then at times I drooping sit,

And spend many an anxious hour; Nor in my book can I take delight, Nor sit in learning's bower,

Worn through with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?

..How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring?

O father and mother, if buds are nipped,

And blossoms blown away;

And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care's dismay,—

How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer fruits appear?

Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,

When the blasts of winter

appear?

TO TIRZAH.

WHATE'ER is born of mortal birth
Must be consumèd with the earth,
To rise from generation free :
Then what have I to do with thee?

The sexes sprung from shame and pride, Blowed in the morn, in evening died; But mercy changed death into sleep; The sexes rose to work and weep.

Thou, mother of my mortal part,
With cruelty didst mould my heart,
And with false self-deceiving tears
Didst blind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,

Didst close my tongue in senseless clay,
And me to mortal life betray.
The death of Jesus set me free :

Then what have I to do with thee?