Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed, Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark!

Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark!

"Cling to the shrouds!" In vain! The breakers

roar

Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan, Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a ship-wrecked man!

Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains, And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?

The elevating thought of suffered pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the

name

Of gratitude! remembrances of friend,

Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last!

I send with deep regards of heart and head,

Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee:

And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me!

TO A YOUNG LADY.

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.

HY need I say, Louisa dear!
How glad I am to see you here,
A lovely convalescent;

Risen from the bed of pain, and fear,
And feverish heat incessant.

The sunny showers, the dappled sky,
The little birds that warble high,
Their vernal loves commencing,
Will better welcome you than I,
With their sweet influencing.

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray:
You made us grow devouter!

and seemed to say,

How can we do without her?

Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew,
They have no need of such as you
In the place where you were going:
This World has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing!

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY

NATURAL.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

F I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep;

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

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.

IS 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!

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

you

ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

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!"

THE VISIONARY HOPE.

AD lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling,

He fain would frame a prayer within his

breast,

Would fain intreat 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.

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 wouldFor 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)

N