THE DREAMING CHILD. MRS. HEMANS. Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know? AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy? What should the cloud be made of? blessed child! Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy, All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild: And now thou tremblest! Wherefore? in thy soul From thee no love hath gone: thy young mind's eye A weary searcher for a viewless home: Nor hath thy sense been quickened into pain, Yet now, on billows of strange passion tossed, M Awake! they sadden me-those early tears, Awful to watch, even rolling through a dream, Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes! Wake, wake! as yet thy life's transparent stream Should wear the hue of none but summer skies. Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, Where now thy thoughts dismayed and darkling rove; Come to the kindly region all thine own, The home still bright for thee with guardian love! Happy, fair child! that yet a mother's voice NIGHT. BARRY CORNWALL. "Tis night, 'tis night! the hour of hours, By Psyche in her starless bowers, And down his fatal arrows flings ;- Who, 'midst that utter darkness sings Sweet music, like the running springs; This her burthen, soft and clear,"Love is here! Love is here!" 'Tis night! the moon is on the stream, And now doth the widow Sorrow smile; And slaves are hushed in slumber deep, Forgetting grief and toil awhile! What sight can fiery morning show Like that which falls with gentle night?— Oh! turn and tell me,-for the day And now comes back the hour of hours, When Love his lovelier mistress seeks, Sighing like winds 'mongst evening flow'rs, Until the maiden Silence speaks! Fair girl, methinks-nay, hither turn Can better bear both sweet and smart: STANZAS. BYRON. RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls What, if thy deep and ample stream should be What do I say—a mirror of my heart? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art, were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever; Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye ; Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk away— But left long wrecks behind them, and again The current I behold will sweep beneath Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. She will look on thee; I have looked on thee, Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream; That happy wave repass me in its flow. The wave that hears my tears returns no more; But that which keepeth us apart is not As various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves a lady of the land, Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. My blood is all meridian; were it not, |