University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

LITTLE SOPHY BY THE SEASIDE.

Young Sophy leads a life without alloy
Of pain; she dances in the stormy air;
While her pink sash and length of golden hair
With answering motion time her step of joy!
Now turns she through that seaward gate of heaven,
That opens on the sward above the cliff,—
Glancing a moment at each barque and skiff,
Along the roughening waters homeward driven;
Shoreward she hies, her wooden spade in hand,
Straight down to childhood's ancient field of play,
To claim her right of common in the land
Where little edgeless tools make easy way—
A right no cruel Act shall e'er gainsay,
No greed dispute the freedom of the sand.

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE ROSE.

She pluck'd a wild wood-rose, and fondly strove,
With pausing step and ever-anxious care,
To carry home her dainty treasure-trove,
A butterfly, perch'd on those petals fair;
Soon the gay creature flutter'd off again;
And then her girlish fingers dropp'd the flower:
Ah! little maid, when Love asserts his power,
This lesson, duly learnt, may save thee pain;
Why from the forest-rose thine hand unclasp,
Because the fickle insect would not stay?
Not all the tendance of thy sweet blue eye,
And tiptoe heed, secured the butterfly;
The flower, that needed but thy gentle grasp
To hold it, thou hast lightly thrown away!

NAUSICAA.

Oft, from my classic memory's inmost shade,
That fair Phæacian shore to light I bring,
Where young Nausicaa stood,—that royal maid,
Whose brave-eyed pity fac'd the naked king,
And made a shipwreck sweet. Beside the bed
Of a near stream he found the robe and oil,
Her timely present to the man of toil;
Anon she took the chariot-reins, and led
The way, while in among her train he pass'd:
Then to the sacred grove, when they had come
Near that unsocial city; till, at last,
He hail'd his sea-star in her own bright home,—
The girl who cloth'd his shame, and by the clue
Of purple yarn, foreshow'd him where to sue.

THE DYING SCULPTOR.

“I hear my comrades' tools at busy morn,”
The youthful sculptor said; “but my poor name
Must die, like some poor babe that dies unborn,
While they may follow Phidias in his fame;
I may not lift my head above the crowd;
My marble visions are dissolving fast;
My dream of art flits like some snow-white cloud
From weary eyes, that watch it to the last,
Before they sleep; and thou, my last design!
Wherein I fondly hop'd would reappear
The model glories of the Belvidere,
With its proud-postur'd grace in every line;
'Tis time I learn'd, while slowly fading here,
To study lowlier attitudes than thine.”

FREE GREECE.

AN ASPIRATION ON THE ACCESSION OF PRINCE GEORGE OF DENMARK.

Now are we free to range thee, hill and plain,
O Greece! for thou thyself art also free;
To muse at Athens, near the Maiden's fane,
Or land on Argos from the morning sea,
And spread our sails about thee lovingly:
What joy thy pupils of the West shall feel
To dream the old war-notes, or the softer peal
Of pastoral sound from folds of Arcady!
Whence oft the gadding Faunus, tired of home,
In later times went off in sudden haste
From old Lycæus to fair Lucretil,
To fend the Sabine farm from sun or blast,
And lent himself to that sweet lyric will,
Which led the Gods and Muses off to Rome.

THE SEASIDE,

IN AND OUT OF THE SEASON.

In summer-time it was a paradise
Of mountain, frith, and bay, and shining sand;
Our outward rowers sang towards the land,
Follow'd by waving hands and happy cries:
By the full flood the groups no longer roam;
And when, at ebb, the glistening beach grows wide,
No barefoot children race into the foam,
But passive jellies wait the turn of tide.
Like some forsaken lover, lingering there,
The boatman stands; the maidens trip no more
With loosen'd locks; far from the billows' roar
The Mauds and Maries knot their tresses fair,
Where not a foam-flake from th' enamour'd shore
Comes down the sea-wind on the golden hair.

THE BARMOUTH SEA-BRIDGE.

When the train cross'd the sea, 'mid shouts of joy,
And the huge sea-pillars dash'd away the tide,
Awhile the power of song seem'd vague, beside
Those vast mechanics, mighty to convoy
A length of cars high over flood and ooze;
But the brief thought was feeble and unwise:
No season'd oak is stronger than the Muse,
For all the great cross-beams, and clamps, and ties.
Brave songs may raise a people sore-deprest,
And knit its strength together for the strife
With foreign foes, or subtle statesman's art:
Sweet hymns have lifted many a dying heart
Above the world, and sped the passing life
Across the waters, to the land of rest!

ON A CHILD'S EYES.

How loveable all infant beauties are!
How sweet, in form and colour, are thine eyes!
Disks of two living flowers, that, rooted far
Within thy spirit, do report its joys,
And pass its half-hour's sorrows on to heaven,
To sun themselves and vanish; but, in prayer,
Their best expression comes; through the deep air
They see their Lord, like those of holy Stephen.
Far off, dear child! be that unhappy time,
When aught of hard or shrewd shall settle there,
Of wanton boldness, or of blighting crime;
So Age may haply find them, as they were,
And Death assort them with full many a one,
That shall not blench, when Jesus takes His throne!

LITTLE NORA;

OR, THE PORTRAIT.

I ask'd of little Nora, but he gave
A piteous sigh—his answer did not come;
My friend stood gazing on his daughter's tomb,
Till, with a sudden shame, I saw it too;
At last he said: “She died three moons ago:”
So long entomb'd had little Nora been,
So long I knew not of her father's woe!
Then came her portrait forth, which I had seen,
And he had shown with pride, when last we met;
The same bright smile—the rose-o'erladen arms,
And all her pretty sum of infant-charms;
But lo! a fair memorial tress was set,
Facing the porcelain picture, where his child
Still nurs'd her pile of summer-wreaths and smil'd.

OUR MARY AND THE CHILD-MUMMY.

When the four quarters of the world shall rise,
Men, women, children, at the Judgment-time,
Perchance this Memphian girl, dead ere her prime,
Shall drop her mask, and with dark new-born eyes
Salute our English Mary, lov'd and lost;
The Father knows her little scroll of prayer,
And life as pure as His Egyptian air;
For, though she knew not Jesus, nor the cost
At which He won the world, she learn'd to pray;
And though our own sweet babe on Christ's good name
Spent her last breath, premonish'd and advis'd
Of Him, and in His glorious Church baptiz'd,
She will not spurn this old-world child away,
Nor put her poor embalmèd heart to shame.

CALLED FROM BED;

OR, LIZZIE AND KATE.

With merry eyes against the golden west,
Two baby girls half-sat, and half-repos'd;
And prattled in the sunshine, ere they clos'd
That summer's eve in childhood's balmy rest;
But, hark! their mother calls them from below,
She bids them rise! Right glad we were to see
The twain, whose happy talk came down the stee,
Lizzie and Kate, with night-gear white as snow,
And winsome looks; And when, with nod and smile,
And kiss for each, we left the woodside cot,
Upon the warm bright threshold for awhile
They stood, as we look'd back upon the spot,
Where crimson hollyhocks made contrast sweet
With those white darlings, and their naked feet.

EMMELINE.

She grows apace, thy darling Emmeline!
Her heart, erewhile but two feet from the ground,
Beats at a higher level, in the line
Of many archers, pressing daily round;
She doffs aside the aim of Jones and Brown;
But, though a surer arrow has been set
By a young marksman from the neighbouring town,
It lingers on the string,—he speaks not yet.
When two love well, events must onward move;
She feels a winning hand is on the bow,
And, if he asks, she will not answer “No;”
And Emmeline to him is life's sole mark,
He knows she loves him, and she knows his love;
Speed, gentle shaft! thou aim'st not in the dark!

A BLUSH AT FAREWELL.

Her tears are all thine own! how blest thou art!
Thine, too, the blush which no reserve can bind;
Thy farewell voice was as the stirring wind
That floats the rose-bloom; thou hast won her heart;
Dear are the hopes it ushers to thy breast;
She speaks not—but she gives her silent bond;
And thou may'st trust it, asking nought beyond
The promise, which as yet no words attest;
Deep in her bosom sinks the conscious glow,
And deep in thine! and I can well foresee,
If thou shalt feel a lover's jealousy
For her brief absence, what a ruling power
A byegone blush shall prove! until the hour
Of meeting, when thy next love-rose shall blow.

THE HYDRAULIC RAM;

OR, THE INFLUENCE OF SOUND ON MOOD.

In the hall grounds, by evening-glooms conceal'd,
He heard the solitary water-ram
Beat sadly in the little wood-girt field,
So dear to both! “Ah! wretched that I am!”
He said, “and traitor to my love and her's!
Why did I vent those words of wrath and spleen,
That chang'd her cheek, and flush'd her gentle mien?
When will they yield her back, those jealous firs,
Into whose shelter two days since she fled
From my capricious anger, phantom-fed?
When will her sire his interdict unsay?
Or must I learn a lonely lot to bear,
As this imprison'd engine, night and day,
Plies its dull pulses in the darkness there?”

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH STUART IN NEWPORT CHURCH, ISLE OF WIGHT.

Lo! by our Queen's command, the Parian stone
Has brought to light a flower that shall not fade;
As old-world seeds, up to the surface thrown,
Break in white blossom by the Sun's sweet aid,
And air their buried beauty; so, at last,
This gentle, royal, persecuted, maid
Has had her blameless memory upcast,
Like the white clover, long in darkness laid;
How touchingly she died! her languid head
Had fallen forward on her father's book,
The Martyr's dying present, ere he bled;
But, on the last high morning, she shall look
Heavenwards, through Him whose precious blood was shed,
For this long-hidden flower of Carisbrook.

THE SICK ORPHAN;

OR, THE COUCH IN THE OPEN AIR.

'Twas at the close of a warm summer's day,
We spread our orphan's couch in the sweet air;
And she was happy as the healthiest there;
While, with each changing posture, as she lay,
A star, that lurk'd within the whispering firs,
Look'd forth upon her, glistening tenderly;
“How like,” she said, “a mother's watchful eye,
“That wakes and brightens, when her infant stirs!”
She lov'd God's world, that maiden meek and mild;
She challeng'd kith and kin on every hand,
Like Francis of Assisi—that dear child
Spoke sisterly of flowers and song-birds wild;
Till every listener lost his self-command,
And o'er her dying love-notes wept and smil'd!

THE MISSING BRIDE.

The wedded girl exclaim'd, “I'll hide, I'll hide!”
And so they sought her gaily far and near,
Till, first in wonder, then in mortal fear,
Hour after hour they look'd for the lost bride.
Oh! would she peep from out the laurel-walk,
Or from yon pleachèd roses nod and smile,
We would forgive her all this mournful talk
And sad surmise, nor chide her girlish guile.
Years pass'd, long years! when in an ancient chest,
Whose heavy lid had dropp'd upon its spring,
They found the object of a bygone quest,
A skeleton, in bridal wreath and ring;
And recogniz'd, with hearts too full to speak,
The mystery of that fatal “Hide and Seek.”

THE FIR GROVE,

OR, THE FATAL FLASH.

Again the ripening crops begin to shine
Near the dark firs, where Agnes dropp'd and died,
Struck in a moment from her lover's side,
At that gay banquet, with its songs and wine;
Well he remembers how the thunder broke
After the flash, that pierc'd their festal bower,
Where she lay prostrate in her hood and cloak,
Drawn round her, just to fend a summer-shower;
Well he remembers, later in the year,
How, when the pine-grove rang with questing hounds,
His soul reverted to those social sounds,
Dear Friendship's voice, and Love's, more wildly dear,
And how the Hunt seem'd like a drunken brawl
Crossing the silence of a funeral.

THE FIR GROVE Continued

THE AXE FORBIDDEN.

That belt of pines is dearer to his heart,
Than all the busy interests of life;
Since, on that festal morn, he saw the dart
Of heaven descending on his plighted wife.
No axe comes there; the trees extend their shade;
His loving sorrow interdicts their fall,
And warns the woodman from the holy glade;
The death of Agnes has redeem'd them all!
Yon small white gate, deep-set in living green,
Through which she pass'd,—alas! without return,—
Though distant, oft in sunny gleams is seen;
Or when, before the rain, the sacred grove
Comes looming up, surcharg'd with death and love,
And bids the little gate stand forth and mourn!

ENGLAND'S HONOUR.

How easily the breath of God o'erwhelms
The nations that presume to live for gain!
And clogs the motion of imperial realms,
As our poor breath the fly upon the pane:
Though our deep-laden argosies rejoice
From port to port to drag the seething sea
Across the world, how helpless we may be
In one brief year, despite our trade and noise!
Too oft, when, burthen'd with our chests and bales,
From the four winds we bring our freightage home,
We help to strike our country's honour dumb;
Her noble voice, once heard above the gales,
Is lost among the stowage, while the prayer
Of our weak neighbours finds us slow to dare.

ENGLAND'S HONOUR Continued

ENFORCED WAR.

What! shall the wharf and warehouse block our view
Of truth and right? Shall we no help afford,
When petty states in their affliction sue,
Because our busy merchants flinch the sword?
What! when redemption of our word is due,
Shall we make pretexts?—shall no war be waged?
The meekest saint would hold us disengag'd
From thoughts of peace, to serve a cause so true:
When Nelson scour'd the ocean's vast expanse
In passionate haste, and, hugging every wind,
Rush'd to the East, his dodging foe to find,
And drove among the anchor'd ships of France
The yeast of his fierce voyage, the great strife
Was forced upon us,—yea, we fought for life!

ENGLAND'S HONOUR Continued

DISHONOURABLE PEACE.

Our own and Europe's safety met in one;
And so we sent our warriors to the field,
Or launch'd them on the deep, our arms to wield;
But ah! when Christian honour pleads alone,
When nought is lost by abstinence from war,
And nought is urgent save a sister's prayer,
We shirk the purer mission, and prepare
To close our armouries with bolt and bar;
We give into the callous hands of trade
Our living hearts—all martial help forbear—
For fear the stirring gun-smoke should invade
Our marts, or smutch our commerce here and there;
We furl our flag, as shopmen in a trice
Roll up the web, that will not fetch a price.

ARMS OLD AND NEW.

How chang'd our warfare and the arms we wield!
The Phalanx, once the Macedonian's pride,
Has fled dishearten'd from the battle-field,
Since Flamininus pierced its wounded side:
Gone is the Roman Legion's tramp and clang:
The Ram assaults not now the leaguer'd wall;
Our English Bowman is beyond recall—
The Rifle cracks where late the arrow sang!
The Trumpet lingers yet beyond them all,
But to its voice no mail-clad warrior hies,
Nor lifts a shield against the cannon-ball;
High up the Shrapnel holds its burning breath;
Within our bays the grim Torpedo lies,—
We arm the depths above us and beneath!

THE BOMB AND THE ORGAN.

AN INCIDENT OF THE SIEGE OF STRASBURG.

In the great Church the holy organ stood,
And took in all its lauds a glorious part,
Affecting every listener's ear and heart
With its own plaintive or ecstatic mood.
O thunderbolt of war! what did'st thou there?
Methinks, it suited with thy function more,
To burst the war-drum, or explode the store,
Or spurn their eagles into drift, than bear
Down on this ark of praise with hostile force:
They knew not, when they sped thee on thy course,
That thou would'st jar with sweet Saint Cecily
And their own Handel, swooping from the sky
To storm the organ with one crashing blow,
As though it were a fortress of the foe!

TO A FRENCH POET AND REFUGEE.

The time is past—that time of little cheer,
When all the hedgerows ran in naked lines;
And all the leafless landscape, far and near,
Seem'd a rough sketch, to foil the celandines;
'Tis morn—'tis May! arouse thy drooping powers,
Sing of the bright June-roses ere they come,
Anticipate the Summer's blowing flowers,
Till thy sweet words seem bursting into bloom;
Dear poet-exile! greet the year's advance!
Yield not to grief, but with a hymn of praise
Salute the season and these cloudless days;
And, when the sunset shall constrain thy gaze,
Then, with the closing flowers and setting rays,
Bemoan the sorrows and defeats of France.

THE ASCENT OF SNOWDON.

How merrily they plied the Alpine staff
In climbing from the lowland farms and barns!
Upward and onward still, intent to quaff
The topmost airs, beyond the dark-blue tarns,
And silver mists and echoes! how the gales
Of Snowdon brac'd the heart our Willie lost
Among the wild sweet faces of the vales!
How his cheek glow'd, and how his hair was tost!
While one poor wight, too weak for that steep track,
Sat with the boulders, and the shining threads
Of mountain-spiders, till his friends came back;
And watch'd their light among the breezy ferns,
Their shy escapes and beautiful returns,
And caught and kiss'd the wandering thistle-seeds.

THE CATTLE TRAIN.

PENMAENMAWR.

All light or transient gloom—no hint of storm—
White wreaths of foam, born in blue waters, broke
Among the mountain shadows; all bespoke
A summer's day on Mona and the Orme.
My open window overlook'd the Rails,
When, suddenly, a cattle-train went by,
Rapt, in a moment, from my pitying eye,
As from their lowing mates in Irish vales;
Close-pack'd and mute they stood, as close as bees,
Bewilder'd with their fright and narrow room;
'Twas sad to see that meek-eyed hecatomb,
So fiercely hurried past our summer seas,
Our happy bathers, and our fresh sea-breeze,
And hills of blooming heather, to their doom.

THE CATTLE TRAIN Continued

HUMAN SORROWS.

Our happy bathers,—pardon my romance!
I thought of gladness only, for the tide
Ran sparkling to the land in merry dance;
But, oh! what sorrows haunt our sweet seaside!
Man, child, and woman mourn the wide world o'er;
Yon maiden's snowy foot, that meets the wave,
Has just come faltering from her lover's grave,
Just pass'd that orphan-group upon the shore;
The yacht glides gaily on; but as it nears
The beach, I see a night-black dress on board;
The lonely widow dreams of those three years
Of summer-voyaging with her lost lord:
Too oft, when human figures fill the scene,
We count from woe to woe, with no glad hearts between!

THE ARTIST ON PENMAENMAWR.

That first September day was blue and warm,
Flushing the shaly flanks of Penmaenmawr;
While youths and maidens, in the lucid calm
Exulting, bath'd or bask'd from hour to hour;
What colour-passion did the artist feel!
While evermore the jarring trains went by.
Now, as for evermore, in fancy's eye,
Smutch'd with the cruel fires of Abergele;
Then fell the dark o'er the great crags and downs,
And all the night-struck mountain seem'd to say,
“Farewell! these happy skies, this peerless day!
And these fair seas—and, fairer still than they,
The white-arm'd girls in dark blue bathing-gowns,
Among the snowy gulls and summer spray.”

CADER IDRIS AT SUNSET.

Last autumn, as we sat, ere fall of night,
Over against old Cader's rugged face,
We mark'd the sunset from its secret place
Salute him with a fair and sudden light.
Flame-hued he rose, and vast, without a speck
Of life upon his flush'd and lonely side;
A double rainbow o'er him bent, to deck
What was so bright before, thrice glorified!
How oft, when pacing o'er these inland plains,
I see that rosy rock of Northern Wales
Come up before me! then its lustre wanes,
And all the frith and intermediate vales
Are darken'd, while our little group remains,
Half-glad, half-tearful, as the vision pales!

THE OLD HILLS'-MAN AND HIS TRUCK.

How oft I met the old hills'-man and his truck,
Gleaning the refuse of that mountain-road!
How oft he stopp'd to chat and bless his luck,
Or talk how much to Providence he owed!
Fresh was his fancy, and his heart was full;
His long-plied shovel had its own romance
For him, and every varying circumstance
Of earth and sky forbade him to be dull:
How oft he fish'd his treasure from the crest
Of rain-fed gullies, hurrying to the west
In the wild sunshine, when the storm went by,
Or came on earlier fortunes, in the eye
Of rosy morn, the roadster's first supply;
Gay at all hours, and ever on the quest!

WELSH LUCY,

OR, THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH'S MOTHER.

Poor Lucy Walters! who remembers thee?
Thy name is lost, though on thy native hill
Perchance they know it, yea, and see thee still;
But, in the outer world, how few there be
To speak of Monmouth's mother! To thy door
The tempter came, and thy young heart beguil'd;
Then came the birth of that half-royal child,
Who, when his feeble battle-shout was o'er,
Crept into lone Shag's Heath from lost Sedgemoor;
Then fell his kinsman's axe, whose triple blow
Thy spirit still hears! sore penance for that tryst
Of shame, which brought thy motherhood of woe—
Or sighs, at breaking of the mountain-mist,
To view, each morn, the headsman's world below.

THE LITTLE HEIR OF SHAME.

He was a little heir of shame—his birth
Announc'd by peevish voices, and his death
Welcom'd by all; he staid not long on earth,
Nor vex'd them long with his fast-fleeting breath;
He felt their blows, too young to feel their scorn;
How that poor babe was beaten and revil'd,
Because, albeit so mischievously born,
He wail'd as loudly as a lawful child!
They hurried to the goal his faltering pace;
Full soon they bore him to his mother's grave;
No more for others' sin accounted base,
In Paradise he shows his harmless face;
The Saviour flinches not from his embrace,
But gives him all his infant-heart can crave.

THE HARVEST MOON.

How peacefully the broad and golden moon
Comes up to gaze upon the reaper's toil!
That they who own the land for many a mile,
May bless her beams, and they who take the boon
Of scatter'd ears; Oh! beautiful! how soon
The dusk is turn'd to silver without soil,
Which makes the fair sheaves fairer than at noon,
And guides the gleaner to his slender spoil;
So, to our souls, the Lord of love and might
Sends harvest-hours, when daylight disappears;
When age and sorrow, like a coming night,
Darken our field of work with doubts and fears,
He times the presence of His heavenly light
To rise up softly o'er our silver hairs.

OLD RURALITIES.

A REGRET.

With joy all relics of the past I hail;
The heath-bell, lingering in our cultur'd moor,
Or the dull sound of the slip-shoulder'd flail,
Still busy on the poor man's threshing-floor:
I love this unshorn hedgerow, which survives
Its stunted neighbours, in this farming age:
The thatch and house-leek, where old Alice lives
With her old herbal, trusting every page;
I love the spinning-wheel, which hums far down
In yon lone valley, though, from day to day,
The boom of Science shakes it from the town
Ah! sweet old world! thou speedest fast away
My boyhood's world! but all last looks are dear;
More touching is the death-bed than the bier!

TO A RED-WHEAT FIELD.

O rich red wheat! thou wilt not long defer
Thy beauty, though thou art not wholly grown;
The fair blue distance and the moorland fir
Long for thy golden laughter! Four years gone,
How oft! with eager foot, I scal'd the top
Of this long rise, to give mine eye full range;
And, now again, rotation brings the change
From seeds and clover, to my favourite crop;
How oft I've watch'd thee from my garden, charm'd
With thy noon-stillness, or thy morning tears!
Or, when the wind clove and the sunset warm'd
Thine amber-shafted depths and russet ears;
O! all ye cool green stems! improve the time,
Fulfil your beauty! justify my rhyme!

TO A SCARECROW, OR MALKIN, LEFT LONG AFTER HARVEST.

Poor malkin, why hast thou been left behind?
The wains long since have carted off the sheaves,
And keen October, with his whistling wind,
Snaps all the footstalks of the crisping leaves;
Methinks thou art not wholly make-believe;
Thy posture, hat, and coat, are human still;
Could'st thou but push a hand from out thy sleeve!
Or smile on me! but ah! thy face is nil!
The stubbles darken round thee, lonely one!
And man has left thee, all this dreary term,
No mate beside thee—far from social joy;
As some poor clerk survives his ruin'd firm,
And, in a napless hat, without employ,
Stands, in the autumn of his life, alone.

THE WILLOW;

OR, THE ROSE-PROP.

How shall I hew thee down, thou mighty bower?
My summer-tent, my waving canopy?
I love too well thy lithe submissive power,
Thy silver beauty is too dear to me;
At first, thou wert a little rose's prop,
A new-cut willow wand, that did'st o'erbear
Thy tiny nursling-plant; we took no care
To check thee, nor thy lavish growth to lop,
For thou art fair as any flower that blows;
But though thou art so pleasant to mine eye,
Methinks, each child of earth some sorrow knows,
Akin to ours; long since that infant rose
Droop'd ere its time, and bow'd its head to die,
While thou hast soar'd aloft, to toss and sigh!

THE OLD FOX-HUNTER.

To some this rich and multifarious world
Is void without the chase: poor Reynard's scent
Is the prime smell beneath the firmament,
And all besides is into Limbo hurl'd;
To-day will be the first meet of the hounds;
The wind blows south, and, in the early dark,
The squire sits gazing o'er his dusky park,
While, in his ears, the horn already sounds;
Yon furzy levels harbour all his hopes,
No other field of glory ranks with them;
Fair Athens and divine Jerusalem
Are moving to the Dawn with Hunter's Copse,
And the Home-cover; but the squire ignores
All fame, that mounts not at his kennel-doors.

TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT.

Quick gleam! that ridest on the gossamers!
How oft I see thee, with thy wavering lance,
Tilt at the midges in their evening dance,
A gentle joust set on by summer airs!
How oft I watch thee from my garden-chair!
And, failing that, I search the lawns and bowers,
To find thee floating o'er the fruits and flowers,
And doing thy sweet work in silence there:
Thou art the poet's darling, ever sought
In the fair garden or the breezy mead;
The wind dismounts thee not; thy buoyant thread
Is as the sonnet, poising one bright thought,
That moves but does not vanish! borne along
Like light,—a golden drift through all the song!

ON FINDING A SMALL FLY CRUSHED IN A BOOK.

Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt,
Has crush'd thee here between these pages pent;
But thou has left thine own fair monument,
Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert:
Oh! that the memories, which survive us here,
Were half as lovely as these wings of thine!
Pure relics of a blameless life, that shine
Now thou art gone: Our doom is ever near:
The peril is beside us day by day;
The book will close upon us, it may be,
Just as we lift ourselves to soar away
Upon the summer-airs. But, unlike thee,
The closing book may stop our vital breath,
Yet leave no lustre on our page of death.

THE EAGLE AND THE SONNET.

As on the sceptre of th' Olympian King
The Royal eagle sat, bedrows'd and still,
The Theban sketch'd him, while the savage will
And strength of the great bird were slumbering;
If Pindar drew him best with drooping wings,
And on a quiet perch his likeness took,
How shall the sonnet, least of rhythmic things,
Presume to take him flying? Will he brook
To wheel and hover, while I hunt for rhymes?
Returning at the Muse's fitful times,
For yet another study? And, if so,
Will he not yearn at last to strike one blow
At his own miniature, and swoop from high
To clutch my climax with an angry cry?

GOUT AND WINGS.

The pigeons flutter'd fieldward, one and all,
I saw the swallows wheel, and soar, and dive;
The little bees hung pois'd before the hive,
Even Partlet hois'd herself across the wall:
I felt my earth-bound lot in every limb,
And, in my envious mood, I half-rebell'd;
When lo! an insect cross'd the page I held,
A little helpless minim, slight and slim;
Ah! sure, there was no room for envy there,
But gracious aid and condescending care;
Alas! my pride and pity were mispent,
The atom knew his strength, and rose in air!
My gout came tingling back, as off he went,
A wing was open'd at me everywhere!

GOUT AND WINGS Continued

PODAGER BEGS PARDON OF BIRDS, BEES, AND WINGS IN GENERAL.

Pardon me, all ye birds that float at ease,
That I begrudg'd your fleet aërial joys;
And thou, poor Partlet! and ye little bees,
That hum and hover with a pleasant noise
About your homes of honey! 'twas a spirt
Of spleen—a peevish murmur of disease,
And not a measur'd curse to do you hurt:
And thou! who for a moment did'st displease,
Commission'd to rebuke my pride, and spring
Thy tiny pennons on me unaware;
Thy smart and sudden lesson was the thing
I needed.—Thou art gone I know not where!
But I have seen, beside my gouty chair,
A chiding angel, of the smallest wing.

A COLONY OF NIGHTINGALES.

I plac'd the mute eggs of the Nightingale
In the warm nest, beneath a brooding thrush;
And waited long, to catch the earliest gush
Of the new wood-notes, in our northern vale;
And, as with eye and ear I push'd my search,
Their sudden music came as sweet to me,
As the first organ-tone to Holy Church,
Fresh from the Angel and St. Cecily;
And, year by year, the warblers still return
From the far south, and bring us back their song,
Chanting their joy our summer groves among,
A tune the merle and goldfinch cannot learn;
While the poor thrush, that hatch'd them, listens near,
Nor knows the rival choir she settled here!

THE SPARROW AND THE DEW-DROP.

When to the birds their morning meal I threw,
Beside one perky candidate for bread
There flash'd and wink'd a tiny drop of dew,
But while I gaz'd, I lost them, both had fled;
His careless tread had struck the blade-hung tear,
And all its silent beauty fell away;
And left, sole relic of the twinkling sphere,
A sparrow's dabbled foot upon a spray;
Bold bird! that did'st efface a lovely thing
Before a poet's eyes! I've half a mind,
Could I but single thee from out thy kind,
To mulct thee in a crumb; a crumb to thee
Is not more sweet than that fair drop to me;
Fie on thy little foot and thrumming wing!

TO A CUCKOO IN A HIGHWAY HEDGE.

O cuckoo! am I of my wits bereft?
Or do I hear thee in the hedgerow there?
The doves of old Dodona never left
Their oak, to babble near a thoroughfare;
How shall thy mythic character outlive
Thy presence, by thy voice identified?
How shall the fells and copses e'er forgive
Thy gadding visit to the highway-side?
How art thou disenchanted! self-betray'd!
Back, foolish bird! return whence thou hast stray'd;
A woody distance is thy vantage-ground;
Thy song comes sweetest up from Moreham wood;
Why notify thy claim to flesh and blood?
The Muses know thee as a mystic sound.

THE SWAN AND THE PEACOCK.

Proud of his hundred eyes of glossy grain,
That watch'd in Argus once, but now are set
Firm in the streamers of his ample train,
The Peacock walks beside his lowlier mate;
Or stands apart, unfolding all his state!
While, on the surface of yon glassy lake,
A snow-white swan, with sinuous neck elate,
Ruffles his shifting plumes for beauty's sake;
One seems like some fair barge, the choice design
Of spotless fancies, for a maiden's joy,
To fare on summer-waters, when they shine;
While the other, swimming in his majesty,
Though on firm ground, that eastern bark might be,
On Cydnus rigg'd to meet Mark Antony.

MY TIMEPIECE.

The hour has struck its advent and farewell,
And hark! another hour begins to beat!
As when a crier stops, and rings his bell
To tell a loss, then on with busy feet
To raise the cry elsewhere; our flying hours
We waste, and baulk them of their noblest use;
And so disable our best gifts and powers,
Or leave them open to the fiend's abuse;
Or should I—the same moral to convey—
A more derisive apologue subjoin,
My clock's a mocking thief, who steals my coin,
Then, counting up the sum, as if to say,
“How many precious pieces I purloin,
One, two, three, four,”—trips daintily away.

OUR NEW CHURCH.

As yet no organ rolls—no prayer-bell rings—
But in and out the darting swallows pass;
While distant hands prepare the pictur'd glass,
Through vacant quatrefoils the hodman sings;
But, when the House is built, the Table spread,
Enter, O! broken heart! and tell thy sin!
Prime guest of Jesus, enter! and begin
The Church's mystic life—one Cup, one Bread;
As to these stone-heap'd graves the spring shall give,
Once more, their common bond of daisies sweet,
So may all crush'd and barren souls revive,
In one white field of common graces meet,
And bells, and organ, and glad hymns, combine
To draw them lovingly to rites divine!

OUR NEW CHURCH CLOCK.

Henceforward shall our Time be plainly read—
Down in the nave I catch the twofold beat
Of those full-weighted moments overhead;
And hark! the hour goes clanging down the street
To the open plain! How sweet at eventide
Will that clear music be to toil-worn men!
Calling them home, each to his own fire-side;
How sweet the toll of all the hours till then!
The cattle, too, the self-same sound shall hear,
But they can never know the power it wields
O'er human hearts, that labour, hope, and fear;
Our village-clock means nought to steed or steer;
The call of Time will share each twinkling ear
With summer flies and voices from the fields!

TWELVE O'CLOCK AT NOON.

The sound of noon floats o'er the village-pool,
Round the babe's cradle and the blind man's chair,
And far afield; each buffet on the air
Is whisper'd back by wandering hearts at school,
The sweetest sum they do! Our Time has got
A presence and a motion, and looks forth
On all, and speaks to all—mispriz'd or not;
What earthly language has a holier worth?
And though my little watch reports to me
The measure of my life more tenderly
Than these great seconds, with their iron gear,
That serve the booming hours—I love to hear
That fair and open reckoning, night and day,
Which tells us boldly how we pass away!

THE AFTERNOTE OF THE HOUR.

The hour had struck, but still the air was fill'd
With the long sequence of that mighty tone;
A wild Æolian afternote, that thrill'd
My spirit, as I kiss'd that dear headstone;
A voice that seem'd through all the Past to go—
From the bell's mouth the lonely cadence swept,
Like the faint cry of unassisted woe,
Till, in my profitless despair, I wept;
My hope seem'd wreck'd! but soon I ceas'd to mourn;
A nobler meaning in that voice I found,
Whose scope lay far beyond that burial-ground;
'Twas grief, but grief to distant glory bound!
Faith took the helm of that sweet wandering sound,
And turn'd it heavenwards, to its proper bourne.

AFTER THE SCHOOL-FEAST.

The Feast is o'er— the music and the stir—
The sound of bat and ball, the mimic gun;
The lawn grows darker, and the setting sun
Has stolen the flash from off the gossamer,
And drawn the midges westward; youth's glad cry—
The smaller children's fun-exacting claims,
Their merry raids across the graver games,
Their ever-crossing paths of restless joy,
Have ceas'd—And, ere a new Feast day shall shine,
Perchance my soul to other worlds may pass;
Another head in childhood's cause may plot,
Another Pastor muse in this same spot,
And the fresh dews, that gather on the grass
Next morn, may gleam in every track but mine!

THE MURDER OF BISHOP PATTESON.

When far from home some noble martyr dies,
We read his sacred story o'er and o'er;
Like incense, drifting from a sacrifice,
His name blows sweet from that disastrous shore,
O'er the broad waters, to his native land;
But, though our martyr'd saint has fallen asleep,
And clos'd his ardent eyes, we need not weep;
Unfoil'd the purpose of the Lord shall stand!
His world-wide Church out-grows the powers of Hell,
His holy Ark expands! O'er lands and seas
The golden wings of Cherubim shall meet,
Till all the tribes shall own one Mercy-seat:
The school of faithful prophets shall not cease
With him, who loved his hundred isles so well!

THE PASTOR'S PRAYER.

At dawn, he marks the smoke among the trees,
From hearths, to which his daily footsteps go;
And hopes and fears and ponders on his knees,
If his poor sheep will heed his voice or no;
What wholesome turn will Ailsie's sorrow take?
Her latest sin will careless Annie rue?
Will Robin now, at last, his wiles forsake?
Meet his old dupes, yet hold his balance true?
He prays at noon, with all the warmth of heaven
About his heart, that each may be forgiven;
He prays at eve: and through the midnight air
Sends holy ventures to the throne above;
His very dreams are faithful to his prayer,
And follow, with clos'd eyes, the path of love.

TO THE HOLY VIRGIN.

Mother of Him who made us! first of mothers!
Who heard'st the glorious angel bid thee “Hail!”
Mother of Him who call'd mankind His brothers,
Although His dying rent the Temple's veil,
And utter darkness told He was divine;
A few brief scriptures show us more of thee,
Than all these after-times of pageantry,
The marble statue, and the jewell'd shrine;
The passionate acclaim of many lands
Has drown'd thine own sweet voice, that ever spake
Of the Lord's handmaid; now they bid thee take
His place, and wrong thee with adoring hands;
But oh! we know thee best, when seen alone,
Far in the Past, with Jesus and with John!

THE PALM-WILLOW.

I read the Gospel-record of those cries
Of praise, that ran before the Friday's harm;
Till late, on Palm-sun eve, I clos'd mine eyes,
Grasping the glossy spray we call a palm;
I dream'd—a fond presumptuous pity took
My soul; I seem'd to line the coming crown
Of thorns, with cushions of the silver down
From those cool sallows, cut beside the brook;
But, on the act, quick came the reprimand,
“What mean'st thou, sinner! with pretentious hand
To staunch the life-blood of th' Incarnate Son?
Without My wounds, the world remains undone;
Why dost thou, then, forbid thy Lord to bleed?
Why grudge mankind the Passion and the Creed?”

THE PALM-WILLOW. Continued

A RECANTATION.

'Twas Christ that spoke, while sitting on the Ass
Beneath the brows of Olivet, He gaz'd
Upon the rebel city, which, alas!
Was, in His weeping eyes, already raz'd:
Calm'd by His mild rebuke, I could not chide
Nor wipe His tears, and though His utmost grief
Lay bare before me, proffer'd no relief,
But “Oh! forgive my folly, Lord,” I cried,—
Vailing the fair presumptuous palm I bore,
To the dark Cross His meeker servant wore;
“Or I would rather be this little foal
That stands and waits, where Thou would'st wait and weep,
Than the light thinker, who would fain control
Thy love, and lull Thy holy pains to sleep.”

TO MY SISTER MARY.

A DEDICATION WRITTEN EARLY IN LIFE.

Sister, accept these lays; as yet I ween
No lay but mine has open'd with thy name,
I would I were a bard of mightier fame,
Then would this tribute of more price have been,
And thou had'st worn a costlier pledge, in sign
Of my deep love! My name is all unknown,
And, daring not to venture forth alone,
It fondly seeks companionship of thine;
And thou dost love me more than to believe
Thy brother's song can furnish shame to thee;
Critics! be your dispraise from harshness free,
And scornful gibe, nor give her cause to grieve,
For, if ye sternly say I cannot sing,
My sister's name is on a shamèd thing!

LOVE OF HOME.

A REJOINDER.

Hence! with your jeerings petulant and low;
My love of Home no ridicule can shake;
Too ductile for the change of place to break,
And far too passionate for thee to know;
I and yon sycamore have grown together,
How on yon slope the shifting sunsets lie,
None know like me and mine; and, tending hither,
Flows the strong current of my memory;
From that same flower-bed, ever dear to me,
I learn'd how all fair things do bloom and fade;
And from the grove, which skirts this garden-glade,
I had my earliest thoughts of Love and Spring;
Thou wott'st not how the heart of man is made;
I learn from thee what change the world can bring.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ONE ON WHOM THE DEATH OF AN EXCELLENT WOMAN HAS FORCED THE CONVICTION OF A FUTURE STATE.

O'erladen with sad musings, till the tear
Sprang to the pressure, I survey'd thy tomb,
All drest in flowers, as though above thy bier,
Thy breath, yet hovering, fed the gentle bloom;
I said, “Maria, though I deem'd too long
That souls would fade like music on the air,
Hast thou not brought me confirmation strong
That they shall yet be beautiful elsewhere?
For thine was so immaculate and rare,
That but the thought of thy deep purity,
Link'd with that other thought, I could not bear;
Mount then! bright soul! and take thy place on high;
I do confess thou wert so good and fair
That such as thou were never born to die!

Continued

The bliss of Heaven, Maria, shall be thine!
Joy link'd to joy by amaranthine bond!
And a fair harp of many strings divine
Shall meet thy touch with unimagin'd sound!
Meek angel-hood shall dwell within thine eye,
Fed by the action of thy purer soul;
Thy brow shall beam with fairer dignity—
No more thy cheek shall blench with Care's control,
Nor yield its hues to changes of the heart,
That beats with plenitude of life and woe—
Taking all dyes that sorrow can impart,
Or ever-shifting circumstance bestow:
The prey of present pangs or after-smart,
For ever feeling pain or missing bliss below.

A PERVERSE LOVER.

I trust thee from my soul, O Mary dear!
But oft, when Rapture hath its fullest power,
Hope treads too lightly for herself to hear;
And Doubt is ever by until the hour.
I trust thee, Mary, but till thou art mine
Up from thy foot unto thy golden hair,
Oh! let me still misgive thee and repine,
Uncommon fears spring up with blessings rare!
Thine eyes of purest love give surest sign,
Drooping with fondness, and thy blushes tell
A flitting tale of steadiest truth and zeal;
Yet I will doubt, to make success divine!
And when at length, I've realiz'd my prize,
Thy husband's heart shall trust thee till it dies!

A MOURNING LOVER.

Thou sittest at thy lyre, O lady sweet!
Teaching it all thine own delicious soul;
Thy voice, the while, swells richly o'er the whole,
And greets mine ear, for Angel-ears more meet;
Unhappy me! not for another's bliss,
But that thou art the blessing! soon to me
Though now thy song doth sound so dear and free,
Its spell shall vanish in another's kiss;
Unhappy me! my wounds must ever smart;
Alas! for fruitless love! Alas! for them,
Who pluck the flowers and press them to their heart,
Though other hands must claim the vital stem,
And all its future bloom; I know thou art
Powerless to save, though hating to condemn.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O honey-throated warbler of the grove!
That in the glooming woodland art so proud
Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud,
Thou dost not own a note we do not love;
The moon is o'er thee, laying out the lawn
In mighty shadows—but the western skies
Are kept awake, to see the sun arise,
Though earth and heaven would fain put back the dawn!
While, wandering for the dreams such seasons give,
With lonely steps, and many a pause between,
The lover listens to thy songs unseen;
And if, at times, the pure notes seem to grieve,
Why lo! he weeps himself, and must believe
That sorrow is a part of what they mean!

ON SOME HUMMING-BIRDS IN A GLASS CASE.

For vacant song behold a shining theme!
These dumb-struck flutterers from Indian land,
The colour on whose crests, sweet Nature's hand,
Fulfils our richest thought of crimson gleam;
Whose wings, thus spread and balanc'd forth, might seem
Slender as serpent's tongue or fairy's wand—
And, as with vantage of the sun we stand,
Each glossy bosom kindles in his beam;
Ah me! how soon does human death impair
The tender beauty of the fairest face,
Whatever balms and unguents we prepare!
While these resplendent creatures bear no trace,
Bright-bosom'd and bright-crested as they are,
No soil, nor token of the tomb's disgrace!

THE PRISONER.

His was a chamber in the topmost tower—
A small unsightly cell with grated bars;
And wearily went on each irksome hour
Of dim captivity and moody cares;
Against such visitants he was not strong,
But sat with laden heart and brow of woe;
And every morn he heard the stir and song
Of birds in royal gardens far below,
Telling of bowers and dewy lawns unseen,
Drench'd with the silver steam that night had shed;
Part blossom-white, part exquisitely green,
By little warblers roam'd and tenanted,
Blending their glad wild notes to greet the sheen
Of the May Dawn, that gleam'd upon his bed.

THE “CANNON FEVER.”

The tide of things should flow less troubled, sure;
To clear its current sages do impart
Their wisdom, and the poet's pitying heart
Pours in its crystal tribute, bright and pure;
But still doth War present a mighty lure
To many minds; a charm which lulls to rest
Compunctious thought, and mails the obdurate breast
With triple-plated iron, to endure
The shock of children's cries and woman's tears,
Untouch'd, unsoften'd, and without a sigh;
O Glory without Honour! Helms and spears
School to a ruthless calm the warrior's eye;
“Carnage” he means, when he cries “Victory,”
And barren battle hath his hopes and fears!

THE EARTHQUAKE.

On from the spot, that felt the first dismay,
His mighty path the running Earthquake clove;
While Ruin, aye attendant on his way,
Sped swiftly o'er the quaking realms above;
Slowly the seasons do transform the grove,
Most other change is wrought with soft delay,
Save this, which turns the course of streams astray,
Once and for evermore! when to remove
The landmarks of this earth our Maker wills,
The work is done with noises harsh and loud,
And lightning speed; such ministry fulfils
The 'hest of Him by whom the heavens are bow'd;
Whose throne is compass'd with a mystic cloud,
Who touches into smoke th' eternal hills.

TO A YOUNG KING.

O! be thou keen to guess when Flattery's near!
His face is not the shadow of his heart;
The court is shrewd and selfish, like the mart,
And fraught with perils that a king should fear;
Trust not his voice of hollow sympathy,
For, should'st thou fathom that dishonest sound,
The line would rise, with noisome clays hung round,
And not the fruitful loam of love for thee;
Such are thy dangers! but thy loves and joys
Are not more sweet than any shepherd-boy's;
The access to all pure delights and ties
Is free to peasant stock, or kingly line;
Beyond the common bliss thou canst not rise,
And royal troubles and restraints are thine.

GREECE: AN ASPIRATION.

Now we may roam along thy flowery dales,
Fair Greece! and where each ancient fountain flows;
Now may we pluck at will the lily and rose,
That bloom so sweetly down thy noble vales.
How strange to hear that Attic nightingale
Of old Kolonos, dear to thee and us!
Or haply catch—if listening may avail
To catch—the lonely voice of Œdipus,
Or wail of choral sorrow from the Past
For wild Medea's wrath. On plain and wold
Thy fanes are free to crumble undefac'd,
For Britain's future poets to behold,
That they may keep that sum of memories fast
Which haunts thy ruins from the days of old!

DEATH AND ITS ANTIDOTE.

The strongest hearts grow fearful at the name
Of him who gathers up the coil of things;
Surceasing breath and life that flies, yet clings,
May be a terror, without touch of shame;
That worms shall revel in the heart of Pride,
And death-damps chill the brows of happy men,
Is truth avow'd and awful! When, oh! when,
Shall I, and those I love, our turn abide?
But stay, my soul! with fond assurance call
Those hopes into thy landscape, fain to rise,
Even then, when earth was powerless in the thrall
Of hateful rites, and mythologic ties,
But priceless now, beyond the count of gold;
Not vague, but true, not fearful, but most bold!

SCIENCE AND FAITH.

Vexation waits on Passion's changeful glow,
But the Intellect may shed its wholesome rays
O'er many a theme, yet never work thee woe!
The sun is calm, while with his genial blaze
He makes all nature bright; be bold to choose
This still, concenter'd, permanent, delight,
Before the fiery bowl and red carouse,
Nor dull with wanton acts thine inner sight;
So for the sensual shall be rarer need,
So shall a mighty onward work be done;
But oh! let Faith and Reverence take the lead,
Test all half-knowledge with a jealous heed,
Nor set thy Science jarring with thy Creed;
Each has its orbit round Truth's central Sun!

TO ---

FAITH AND FREE-THINKING.

No trace is left upon that callous mind
By truths, that form on thy susceptive thought
In instant symmetry; thy mate is blind,
A smart, free-thinking sophist, pledg'd to nought;
Is he not blind, the man who rashly dares
To strut about a realm of mystery?
Who carries up his small philosophy
Into the heights of Zion, and prepares
A lecture on his trespass? To a heart
So braz'd with wisdom, canst thou hope to prove
That old-world story of a Saviour's love?
In thy glad loyalties he bears no part;
He wonders at the rapture in thine eye;
Negation has no bond with ecstasy!

THE PORTRAIT PAINTER.

No feeble glow of intellectual flame,
Inform'd that Painter's heart; to none more due
Than him, the honours of domestic fame;
What hand, but his, so excellently knew
The shadow of our lineaments? In vain
The glance of Beauty dar'd his subtle skill,
Touch'd into all its sympathies again,
Kindled anew with all its power to kill;
Age smiled, portray'd in all its sober calm,
Unvext, of grandsire aspect, pale and meek;
And babyhood, with hands too small for harm;
And youth, with full and health-ensanguin'd cheek,
Show'd life-like on his chart, and boyhood sleek
Still wore his dimpled chin, and merry charm.

TO ---

[How can the sweetness of a gentle mind]

How can the sweetness of a gentle mind
Pall on thy spirit? say, it is not so;
Her eyes are mournful and her sorrows flow,
For that she fears her hands have fail'd to bind
The tie of mutual wishes round thy heart;
Thy faith was given, thy promise made a part
Of the pure office which confirm'd her thine;
Oh, do not thou annul that rite divine,
Nor bid such promise swell the tinsel-mart
Of empty shows, unmeaning types and vain—
But teach thy wife to nurse her hopes again
In love returning, never to depart;
For nothing festers like a broken vow,
Which wrecks another's peace and blights another's brow.

THE TRAVELLER AND HIS WIFE'S RINGLET.

I have a circlet of thy sunny hair,
A light from home, a blessing to mine eyes;
Though grave and mournful thoughts will often rise,
As I behold it mutely glistening there,
So still, so passive! like a treasure's key,
Unconscious of the dreams it doth compel,
Of gems and gold, high-pil'd in secret cell,
Too royal for a vulgar gaze to see!
If they were stolen, the key could never tell;
If thou wert dead, what should thy ringlet say?
It shows the same, betide thee ill or well,
Smiling in love, or shrouded in decay;
It cannot darken for dead Isabel,
Nor blanch, if thy young head grew white to-day!

THE ALTAR, AS CONNECTED WITH MARRIAGE.

A BRIDAL FAREWELL.

WRITTEN FOR THE MADINGLEY SCHOOL, ON THE ARRIVAL OF THE PRINCE OF WALES AT THE MANOR HOUSE, IN 1861.

A LEGEND FROM DE LAMARTINE'S TRAVELS IN THE EAST, VERSIFIED.

AN INCIDENT ON THE DEE.

SLEEP AND DREAMS.

A FATHER TO HIS SICK CHILD ASLEEP.

BY A DEATH-BED.