Ay, to his ear that native tone Had something of the sea wave's moan! His mother's cabin home, that lay Oh, scorn him not!-the strength whereby These have one fountain deep and clear The same whence gush'd that childlike tear! THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S. THOU sleepest but when wilt thou wake, fair child? When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn? When the first rich breath of the rose is born ?- Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes; Not when the fawn wakes-not when the lark Thou 'rt gone from us, bright one!-that thou shouldst die, And life be left to the butterfly! Thou 'rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough: How may we love but in doubt and fear, THE SUNBEAM. THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall— A bearer of hope unto land and sea- Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles; A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest shades, Thou art streaming on through their green arcades; I look'd on the mountains—a vapour lay I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot- To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Thou takest through the dim church aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee? The faith touching all things with hues of heaven! BREATHINGS OF SPRING. Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs;-bring back WHAT wakest thou, Spring!-sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, E'en as our hearts may be. And the leaves greet thee, Spring!-the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. And the bright waters-they too hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray And flowers-the fairy-peopled world of flowers! But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring! Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art, What wakest thou in the heart? Too much, oh! there too much!—we know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in the wind's low tone, By voices that are gone! Looks of familiar love, that never more, |