THE YOUNGLING OF THE FLOCK.

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From altered Friendship's chilling glance, from Hate's envenomed dart,

Misplaced Affection's withering pang, or "true Love's" wonted

smart,

I cannot save my sinless child; but I can bid him seek

Such Faith and Love from heaven above as leave earth's malice weak.

But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest bird His

care,

And tempers to the new-shorn lamb the blast it ill could bear, Will still His guiding arm extend, His gracious plan pursue, And if He gives thee ills to bear, will grant thee courage too.

Dear youngling of my little fold, the loveliest and the last, 'Tis sweet to deem what thou mayst be, when long, long years have past;

To think, when time hath blanched my hair, and others leave my side;

Thou mayst be then my prop and stay, my blessing and my

pride!

And when the world hath done its worst, when life's fever-fit

is o'er,

And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never touch it

more,

How sweet to think thou mayst be near to catch my latest

sigh,

To watch beside my dying bed, and close my glazing eye!

Oh! 'tis for offices like these, the last sweet child is given, The mother's joy, the father's pride, the fairest boon of heaven;

Their fireside plaything first, and then of their failing strength the rock;

The rainbow to their waning years,-the Youngling of their Flock!

EVENING.

"The holy time is quiet as a Nun,
Breathless with adoration."

WORDSWORTH.

'TIS evening: on Abruzzo's hill
The summer sun is lingering still,
As though unwilling to bereave

The landscape of its softest beam,—
So fair, one can but look and grieve

To think that like a lovely dream,
A few brief, fleeting moments more
Must see its reign of beauty o'er!

'Tis evening and a general hush

Prevails, save when the mountain spring
Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush,
And makes melodious murmuring;-

Or when from Corno's brow severe
The echoes of its convent bell
Come wafted on the far-off ear,

With soft and diapason swell:
But sounds so wildly sweet as they,
Ah, who would ever wish away!

A WOMAN'S FAREWELL.

Yet there are seasons when the soul,

Rapt in some dear delicious dream, Heedless what skies may o'er it roll,

What rays of beauty round it beam, Shuts up its inmost depths, lest aught However wondrous, wild, or fair, Shine in, and interrupt the thought,

The one deep thought that centres there.

Though with the passionate sense so shrined
And canonized, the hues of grief
Perchance be closely intertwined,
The lonely bosom spurns relief!
And could the breathing scene impart
A charm to make its sadness less,
"Twould hate the balm that healed its smart,
And loathe the spell of loveliness

That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so
It stirred the stream of thought below.

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A WOMAN'S FAREWELL.

ADAPTED TO AN AIR BY MOZART.

FARE thee well! 'Tis meet we part,
Since other ties and hopes are thine;
Pride that can nerve the lowliest heart,
Will surely strengthen mine!
Yes, I will wipe my tears away,
Repress each struggling sigh;

Call back the thoughts thou led'st astray,
Then lay me down and die!

Fare thee well! I'll not upbraid

Thy fickleness or falsehood now;—
Can the wild taunts of love betrayed
Repair one broken vow?

But, if reproach may wake regret
In one so false or weak,

Think what I was when first we met,
And read it-on my cheek!

Fare thee well! On yonder tree
One leaf is fluttering in the blast,
Withered and sere-a type of me-
For I shall fade as fast:

Whilst many a refuge still hast thou,
Thy wandering heart to save
From the keen pangs that wring mine now;
I have but one-the grave!

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

WRITTEN AFTER MEETING A YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL MEMBER OF THE ORDER IN THE HOTEL DIEU OF PARIS.

ART thou some spirit from that blissful land

Where fever never burns nor hearts are riven?

That soothing smile, those accents ever bland,

Say, were they born of earth, or caught from heaven?

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

Art thou some seraph-minister of grace,

Whose glorious mission in the skies had birth? An angel sure in bearing, form, and face,

All but thy tears—and they belong to earth!

Oh, ne'er did beauty, in its loftiest pride,

A splendour boast that may compare with thine;
Thus bending low yon sufferer's bed beside,
Thy graces mortal, but thy cares divine.

A woman, filled with all a woman's fears,

Yet strong to wrestle with earth's wildest woe; A thing of softest smiles, and tenderest tears,

That once would tremble did a breeze but blow:

Leaving, perchance, some gay and happy home,
Music's rich tones, the rose's odorous breath,
Throughout the crowded lazar-house to roam,
And pierce the haunts of Pestilence and Death.

For ever gliding with a noiseless tread,

As loth to break the pain-worn slumberer's rest;
To smooth the pillow, raise the drooping head,
And pour thy balsam on the bleeding breast.

Or, in each calmer interval of pain,

The Christian's hope and promised boon to show; And, when all human anodynes are vain,

To nerve the bosom for its final throe.

To lead the thoughts from harrowing scenes like this,
To that blessed shore where sin and sorrow cease

To imp the flagging soul for realms of bliss,

And bid the world-worn wanderer part in peace.

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