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THE DREAMING CHILD.

MRS. HEMANS.

Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters are,
When no breath troubles them.-Beaumont & Fletcher.

AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy? What should the cloud be made of? blessed child! Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy,

All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild:

And now thou tremblest! Wherefore? in thy soul
There lies no past, no future. Thou hast heard
No sound of presage from the distance roll,
Thy breast bears traces of no arrowy word:

From thee no love hath gone: thy young mind's eye
Hath looked not into death's, and thence become
A questioner of mute eternity,

A weary searcher for a viewless home:

Nor hath thy sense been quickened into pain,
By feverish watching for some step beloved;
Free are thy thoughts, an ever changeful train,
Glancing like dew-drops, and as lightly moved.

Yet now, on billows of strange passion tossed,
How art thou wildered in the cave of sleep!
My gentle child! 'midst what dim phantoms lost,
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep.

M

Awake! they sadden me-those early tears,
First gushings of the strong dark river's flow
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years;
Th' unfathomable flood of human wo!

Awful to watch, even rolling through a dream, Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes! Wake, wake! as yet thy life's transparent stream Should wear the hue of none but summer skies.

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, Where now thy thoughts dismayed and darkling rove; Come to the kindly region all thine own,

The home still bright for thee with guardian love!

Happy, fair child! that yet a mother's voice
Can win thee back from visionary strife!
Oh shall my soul, thus wakened to rejoice,
Start from the dream-like wilderness of life?

NIGHT.

BARRY CORNWALL.

"Tis night, 'tis night! the hour of hours,
When love lies down with folded wings,

By Psyche in her starless bowers,

And down his fatal arrows flings ;-
Those bowers whence not a sound is heard,
Save only from the bridal bird,

Who, 'midst that utter darkness sings

Sweet music, like the running springs;

This her burthen, soft and clear,"Love is here! Love is here!"

'Tis night! the moon is on the stream,
Bright spells are on the soothed sea,
And Hope, the child, is gone to dream
Of pleasures-which may never be!
And now is haggard Care asleep;

And now doth the widow Sorrow smile; And slaves are hushed in slumber deep, Forgetting grief and toil awhile!

What sight can fiery morning show
To shame the stars or pale moonlight?
What bounty can the day bestow

Like that which falls with gentle night?—
Sweet lady, sing I not aright?

Oh! turn and tell me,-for the day
Is faint and falling fast away;

And now comes back the hour of hours,

When Love his lovelier mistress seeks, Sighing like winds 'mongst evening flow'rs, Until the maiden Silence speaks!

Fair girl, methinks-nay, hither turn
Those eyes, which midst their blushes burn;-
Methinks, at such a time one's heart

Can better bear both sweet and smart:
Love's look-the first-which never dieth:
Or death-which comes when beauty flieth-
And all, save truth, is lost at last!

STANZAS.

BYRON.

RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she
Walks by the brink, and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me :

What, if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed?

What do I say—a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;

And such as thou art, were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever; Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye ;

Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk away—

But left long wrecks behind them, and again
Borne on our old unchanged career, we move;
Thou tendest wildly onward to the main,
And I to loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath

Her native walls, and murmur at her feet;

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.

She will look on thee; I have looked on thee,
Full of that thought, and from that moment ne'er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without th' inseparable sigh for her.

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream;
Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now;
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

That happy wave repass me in its flow.

The wave that hears my tears returns no more;
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore;
I near thy source, she by the dark blue deep.

But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth.

A stranger loves a lady of the land,

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood.

My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime; I shall not be,
In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot,
A slave again of love, at least of thee.

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