Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:
For though my sleep be gone,

Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

"TIS sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,
Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
This feel I hourly more and more:
There's healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

Do

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow,

dove,

the

The linnet and thrush say, " I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent-the wind is so strong; What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm

weather,

And singing, and loving-all come back together.
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me !"

A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER.

ERE on my bed my limbs I lay,

God grant me grace my prayers to say:
O God! preserve my mother dear

In strength and health for many a year;
And,
O! preserve my
father too,
And may I pay him reverence due;

And may I my best thoughts employ
To be my parents' hope and joy;

And, O! preserve my brothers both
From evil doings and from sloth,
And may we always love each other,
Our friends, our father, and our mother:
And still, O Lord, to me impart
An innocent and grateful heart,
That after my last sleep I may
Awake to thy eternal day!

Amen.

THE VISIONARY HOPE.

SAD lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,
That his sick body might have ease and rest;
He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing,
Though Nature forced; though like some captive
guest,

Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
The sternness on his gentle brow confessed,
Sickness within and miserable feeling:

Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain,
Each night was scattered by its own loud screams:
Yet never could his heart command, though fain,
One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

VOL. I.

N

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he would

For Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost!
For this one hope he makes his hourly moan,
He wishes and can wish for this alone!
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its
gleams

(So the love-stricken visionary deems)

Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!

Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

OFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated name, I hear

A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of Wife !

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!
A feeling that upbraids the heart
With happiness beyond desert,

That gladness half requests to weep!
Nor bless I not the keener sense
And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting
From jealous fears, or coy denying;
But born beneath Love's brooding wing,
And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then
Resign the soul to love again;—

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow
Of smoothest song, they come, they go,
And leave their sweeter understrain
Its own sweet self---a love of Thee
That seems, yet cannot greater be!

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

I.

How warm this woodland wild Recess !
Love surely hath been breathing here;
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!
Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,
As if to have you yet more near.