Though sad, alas! 'tis soothing to recall,

Amid the scenes of youth, its lapsed stream
Of joys; to hear familiar voices fall;

And see long-vanished forms around us gleam :

To recognise the echo of each hall,

And all the loved localities, that teem

Upon the eager sight. This, this might break

The callousness of hearts nought else could wake.

I picture me the tiny boy, afield,

Exultingly astride his bridled cane;

How well the urchin loves the whip to wield!
Thou, heedless hobby! can'st not feel its pain;

But to a bolder charger thou must yield,

For, lo! the house dog trails his linkéd rein;

Ah, happy wight! and can it, can it be,

That I was once a careless child like thee?

But seek we now the hedge-rows thickening green,
And let us watch him in his joyous quest,
Halting where'er is woven the closest screen,

Each tuft appearing still the wished-for nest;
Yonder, full many a spring, the thrush unseen

Hath reared her brood; ah! mark her labouring breast

As the rude boy draws near; the sharp, shrill cry
That wrings the flutterer's bosom hovering by.

Oft will he follow, on the "furrowed lea,"

The cheery ploughman whistling to his team;
And strain his lip to join in symphony;

Or from the willow that o'er-weeps the stream

Shape the shrill pipe, and be the loudest, he-
Long looks he for the sun's receding beam,
That, mounted on old Dobbin, he may guide

Him through the cleansing stream, and homeward ride.

Up by the shallow rivulet he waits,

Wending its way through broken glen and brake; And oft his stealthy hand insinuates

Beneath the slippery stone, intent to take The spotted lurker; or with barbéd baits,

Casts the long line, from well-concealed stake, Where the broad river sleeps; thither the morn On winged expectancy shall see him borne.

Lo! from the school, like eager flocks unpenned,
A rush of happy hearts-their toil gone by ;-
And to the pond with flickering steps they wend;
The bold plunge quickly in; the fearful lie
Upon the sunny brink, or shuddering, send

Half-feigned shrieks ashore, their knees yet dry!

And he is there, amid the mirthful rout,

Mingling his happy voice with every shout!

Now to the field, for sports, like swarming bees,

The little band, with busy humming veers;

Some in the vacant swing, from yonder trees

Which Spring has clothed with twice a hundred years,

Cleave the dull air, awake the fanning breeze;

Some climb the lofty trunks, scornful of fears; While some more timid, on the green turf lie, And urge the adventurous as they upward ply.

On the smooth green, or round the aged oak,
For future deeds their facile limbs are strung,
Stretched in the eager race, or mimic yoke,

Or in the heating wrestle fiercely flung.
Now by some sudden strife their game is broke ;
But soon anew the peal of pleasure rung;
For, with revived pastime peace returns,
And every little heart with transport burns.

Visions of youth, and thou sweet vale, farewell!
Scenes of my boyhood's guileless sports, adieu!
How does my heart with aching rapture swell,

As thus, in dreams, I tread your haunts anew.
Nor will I seek these musings sweet to quell,

To scare such visions from my mental view;
Though Memory's glass but gives me back again
Thoughts of the past, whose very bliss is pain!

MY CHILD.

Literary Souvenir.

CANNOT make him dead!

His fair, sunshiny head.

Is ever bounding round my study chair;

Yet when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlour floor,

And through the open door

I hear a foot-fall on the chamber stair:

MY CHILD.

I'm stepping towards the hall,

To give the boy a call,

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satcheled lad I meet

With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair;
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid,

Under the coffin lid,

Closed are his eyes-cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt,

O'er it in prayer I knelt,

Yet my heart whispered that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead,

When passing by the bed

So long watched over with parental care;

My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that--he is not there!

When at the cool, gay break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

When at first breathing of the morning air,

My soul goes up with joy,

To Him who gave my boy,

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!

69

When, at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;

Whate'er I may be saying,

I am in spirit praying,

For our boy's spirit-though he is not there!

Not there! where then is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear;
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked--he is not there!

He lives in all the past

He lives! nor to the last

Of seeing him again will I despair;

In dreams I see him now,

And on his angel brow

I see it written-" Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

Father, thy chastening rod,

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

'Twill be our joy to find that-he is there!

ANONYMOUS.