THE ANGLO-INDIAN EXILE. BY MISS ROBERTS. UPON the Ganges' regal stream The sun's bright splendours rest, And gorgeously the noontide beam Reposes on its breast; But in a small secluded nook, Beyond the western sea, There rippling glides a narrow brook That's dearer far to me. The lory perches on my hand, Caressing to be fed, And spreads its plumes at my command, Comes flying from the tree, Which bears its unpretending nest, Alas! I'd rather be. The fire-fly flashes through the sky, Though glory tracks that shooting star, Throughout the summer year the flowers, The lotus opes its chalices, Their ample mirrors make: I languish for a cottage home, AN ITALIAN SONG. BY SAMUEL ROGERS. DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, The shepherd's horn at break of day, N TO A CHILD AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. I MISS thee from my side, With thy merry eyes and blue; Oft its curtains peeping through ; — Thou wert wont to give me then ; When'twas time for bed again ! I miss thee from my side, Or beneath my table seated :— Sleep hath overpowered thee quite ! I miss thee from my side, When brisk Punch is at the door ;Vainly pummels he his bride, Judy's wrongs can charm no more! He may beat her till she's sore, She may die, and he may flee'; Though I loved their squalls of yore, What's the pageant now to me ! I miss thee from my side, When the light of day grows pale; Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale, I miss thee from my side In the haunts that late were thine; Where thy twinkling feet would glide, And the clasping fingers twine; Here are chequered tumblers, nine, Silent relics of the play, Here the mimic tea-things shine Thou wouldst wash the live-long day! N 2 |