MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Infant Love. (From Blanch, a Poem.) If in this world of breathing harm, One power, which, to no clime confin'd, Sways either sex, and every mind; Which cheers the monarch on his throne; The soldier rough, the letter'd sage, ANONYMOUS AUTHORESS. Among the poems of Wordsworth are the following verses by a Female Friend of the Author. They are understood to be the production of a very near relative of that exquisite writer. Address to a Child, during a Boisterous Winter Evening. WHAT way does the Wind come? what way does he go? He rides over the water and over the snow, Thro' wood and thro' vale; and o'er rocky height Which the goat cannot climb takes his sounding flight. He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, And rings a sharp larum ;-but if you should look, There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock, Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock; Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place? Nothing but silence and empty space, Save in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, That he's left for a bed for beggars or thieves! As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow with me You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see That he has been there, and made a great rout, And cracked the branches, and strewn them about; Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig That look'd up at the sky so proud and big All last summer, as well you know, Studded with apples, a beautiful show! Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, And growls as if he would fix his claws Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle Drive them down, like men in a battle: But let him range round; he does us no harm We build up the fire, we're snug and warm; Untouch'd by his breath, see the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light; Books have we to read,-hush! that half-stifled knell, Methinks 'tis the sound of the eight-o'clock bell. He Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there, may work his own will, and what shall we care? He may knock at the door,- we'll not let him in, May drive at the windows,-we'll laugh at his din; Let him seek his own home wherever it be; Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. FELICIA HEMANS. The Treasures of the Deep. WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main? -Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells, Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain. -Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more! - What wealth untold, Far down, and shining thro' their stillness, lies!. Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies. -Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main, Earth claims not these again! |