Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, 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, 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! ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do ask what the birds say? The sparrow, you 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, The And singing, and loving—all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 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: And, O! preserve my brothers both Amen. THE VISIONARY HOPE. SAD lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, 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! (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 A promise and a mystery, A pledge of more than passing life, A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep! That gladness half requests to weep! Of transient joys, that ask no sting Wheel out their giddy moment, then A more precipitated vein Of notes, that eddy in the flow RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. I. How warm this woodland wild Recess ! As if to have you yet more near. |