On the Death of an Infant.

When joy from out the daisies grew,

In woodland pastures green,

And summer skies were far more blue
Than since they e'er have been.

Now autumn's pensive voice is heard
Amid the yellow bowers,

The robin is the regal bird,

And thou the Queen of Flowers!
He sings on the laburnum trees
Amid the twilight dim,

And Araby ne'er gave the breeze
Such scents as thou to him.

Rich is the pink, the lily gay,

The rose is summer's guest;
Bland are thy charms when these decay,
Of flowers, first, last, and best!
There may be gaudier on the bower,
And statelier on the tree,

But, wallflower, loved wallflower,
Thou art the flower for me!

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On the Death of an Infant.

WITH

BY MISS JANE TAYLOR.

what unknown delight the mother smiled, When this frail treasure in her arms she press'd!

Her prayer was heard—she clasp'd a living child;

But how the gift transcends the poor request ! A child was all she ask'd, with many a vow: Mother-behold the child an angel now!

Now in her Father's house she finds a place ;
Or if to earth she take a transient flight,
'Tis to fulfil the purpose of His grace,

To guide thy footsteps to the world of lightA ministering spirit sent to thee,

That where she is, there thou may'st also be.

A

The Orphan Boy.

BY JOHN THELWALL.

LAS! I am an orphan boy,

With nought on earth to cheer my heart:

No father's love, no mother's joy,

Nor kin nor kind to take my part.

My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity;

And, when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss, alas! for me.

Yet once I had a father dear,
A mother, too, I wont to prize,
With ready hand to wipe the tear—
If chanced a childish tear to rise.
But cause of tears was rarely found,
For all my heart was youthful glee ;
And, when the kiss of love went round,

How sweet a kiss there was for me!

The Orphan Boy.

But, ah! there came a war, they say—
What is a war I cannot tell;

But drums and fifes did sweetly play,
And loudly rang our village bell.
In troth, it was a pretty sound,

I thought, nor could I thence foresee
That, when the kiss of love went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.

A scarlet coat my father took,

And sword, as bright as bright could be, And feathers that so gaily look,

All in a shining cap had he.

Then how my little heart did bound ;
Alas! I thought it fine to see;

Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.

My mother sigh'd, my mother wept,
My father talk'd of wealth and fame;
But still she wept, and sigh'd, and wept,
I could not choose but do the same.
But soon the horsemen throng around,
My father mounts with shout and glee:

Then gives a kiss to all around;
And, ah! how sweet a kiss to me!

But when I found he rode so far,

And came not home as heretofore,

I said it was a naughty war,

And loved the fife and drum no more.
My mother oft in tears was drown'd,
Nor merry tale, nor song had she;
And, when the hour of night came round,
Sad was the kiss she gave to me.

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At length the bell again did ring ;
There was a victory, they said :
'Twas what my father said he'd bring;
But, ah! it brought my father dead.
My mother shriek'd; her heart was woe;
She clasp'd me to her trembling knee.
O God! that you may never know
How wild a kiss she gave to me.

But once again—but once again
These lips a mother's kisses felt;
That once again—that once again—
The tale a heart of stone would melt;
'Twas when upon her deathbed laid—
(O God! O God! that sight to see!)
My child! my child!" she feebly said,
And gave a parting kiss to me.

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So now I am an orphan boy,

With nought below my heart to cheer:
No mother's love, no father's joy,
Nor kin, nor kind, to wipe the tear.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity;

And when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss of love for me.

But I will to the grave and weep, Where late they laid my mother low, And buried her with earth so deep,

All in her shroud as white as snow. And there I'll call on her so loud,

All underneath the churchyard tree, To wrap me in her snow-white shroud, For those cold lips are dear to me.

Queen Mary's Lament for Calais. 217

Queen Mary's Lament for Calais.

PON the winds-upon the waves

UPON

There comes a voice of fear;

The tenants of a thousand graves

Are screaming in my ear;

They come from ocean and from plain,

Beneath the walls they are in vain

With me to wail and weep:
From rampart and from citadel

The Frenchmen's shouts of triumph swell,
And will not let them sleep.

Pale mourners of her child's disgrace,
I see my father's ghost

Leading the kings of Edward's race
To join the shadowy host:

Well, royal spectre, may'st thou frown-
Gone is the gem, which England's crown
By England's valour won;
Yet am I worthy that and thee,

My doom is seal'd-I cannot be
Despised, and yet live on.

There came a fiend—with withering breath
He told a tale of shame ;

Of blights on England's rosy wreath,

Of scorn on Mary's name.

The word of Calais on my heart

He traced as with a fiery dart;

And as the letters grew,

More slowly roll'd the sanguine tide,
The springs of life within me died,
My destiny I knew.