IN THE MANNER OF A CHILD OF SEVEN

YEARS OLD.

"Tis silly, sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love

Like the old age.

AH! woe betide my bonny bride,

For war is in the land,

And far and wide the foemen ride
With ruthless bloody brand.

Still as a dream the purple beam
Of eve is on the river,

But ghastly bright, at the dead of night,
A blood-red flame will quiver.

Fair in the skies the sun will rise,
As ever sun was seen,

But never again our window pane
Shall back reflect his sheen :

For the warrior stern our cot will burn,
And trample on the bower;

It grew for years of smiles and tears,

'Twill perish in an hour.

Those firs were old, our grandsires told,

In their good fathers' days;

And my soul it grieves that their needle leaves Must crackle in the blaze.

Beneath their shade how oft we play'd!
There was our place of wooing:-

But now we 're wed, and peace is fled,
And we shall see their ruin.

In battle plain shall I be slain,
And never would I shrink;
Oh! were that all, what may befall
To thee, I dare not think.

And our sweet boy, our baby joy,

He 'll for his mother cry,

Till the hot smoke his voice shall choke,

And then my bird will die.

Green are the graves, and thick as waves,

Within our holy ground;

And here and there, an hillock fair,

An infant's grave is found.

Our fathers died, their whole fireside

Is laid in peace together,

But, vile as stones, our bleaching bones

Must brave the wind and weather.

Nay, love, let's fly, to the hill so high,

Where eagles build their nest;

Among the heather we 'll couch together,
As blithely as the best.

We'll leave the bower and tender flower
That we have nursed with care;

But the wild blue bell shall bloom as well
Beside our craggy lair.

We shall not die, for all birds that fly
Shall thither bring us food,

And come the worst, we 'll be help'd the first,
Before the eagle's brood.

The mist beneath, that curls its wreath

Around the hill-top hoar,

There will we hide, my bonny bride,

And ne'er be heard of more.

SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT.

LIKE one pale, flitting, lonely gleam
Of sunshine on a winter's day,

There came a thought upon my dream,
I know not whence, but fondly deem
It came from far away.

Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight
That visit our bedarken'd clay,
Like passage birds, with hasty flight,
It cannot be they perish quite,
Although they pass away.

They come and go, and come again ;

They're ours, whatever time they stay:

Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain Before they pass away.

But whither go they? No one knows

Their home, but yet they seem to say,

That far beyond this gulf of woes,

There is a region of repose

For them that pass away.

TO SOMEBODY.

And the imperial votaress passed on

In maiden meditation fancy free.-SHAKSPEARE.

I BLAME not her, because my soul
Is not like her's,—a treasure
Of self-sufficing good,-a whole
Complete in every measure.

I charge her not with cruel pride,
With self-admired disdain ;

Too happy she, or to deride,
Or to perceive my pain.

I blame her not-she cannot know

What she did never prove: Her streams of sweetness purely flow Unblended yet with love.

No fault hath she, that I desire

What she cannot conceive;

For she is made of bliss entire,
And I was born to grieve.

And though she hath a thousand wiles,
And, in a moment's space,

As fast as light, a thousand smiles

Come showering from her face,