THE CHILD'S RETURN, &c.

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng;
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim,
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim;
These are old words, that have made each grove
A dreaming haunt for romance and love;
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie,
A place for the gushings of poesy.

Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er;

Enough for thee are the dews that sleep,

Like hidden gems, in the flower-urns deep;
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell
Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell;

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And the scent, by the blossoming sweet-briars shed, And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head.

Oh! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee!

What is remembrance or thought to thee?

Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring,

O'er thy green pathway their colours fling;
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon-

What if to droop and to perish soon?

Nature hath mines of such wealth-and thou
Never wilt prize its delights as now!

For a day is coming to quell the tone
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one!
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care,
Under the gloss of its clustering hair;

And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes

Into the stillness of autumn skies;

And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, Midst the hidden things of each human heart.

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this?
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss!

Such be thy portion !—the bliss to look,

With a reverent spirit, through nature's book;

THE CHILD'S RETURN, &c.

By fount, by forest, by river's line,

To track the paths of å love divine;

To read its deep meanings-to see and hear

God in earth's garden-and not to fear!

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THE FAITH OF LOVE.

THOU hast watched beside the bed of death,

Oh fearless human love!

Thy lip received the last faint breath,

Ere the spirit fled above.

Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier,

In a low and farewell tone,

Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear—

-Oh love! thy task is done.

THE FAITH OF LOVE.

Then turn thee from each pleasant spot

Where thou wert wont to rove,

For there the friend of thy soul is not,
Nor the joy of thy youth, oh love!

Thou wilt meet but mournful memory there,
Her dreams in the grove she weaves,

With echoes filling the summer air,

With sighs the trembling leaves.

Then turn thee to the world again,

From those dim haunted bowers,

And shut thine ear to the wild sweet strain

That tells of vanished hours.

And wear not on thine aching heart

The image of the dead,

For the tie is rent that gave thee part

In the gladness it's beauty shed.

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