"Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!

So for the mother's sake the child was dear, And dearer was the mother for the child.

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN.

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN, IN A ROMAN

CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY.

ORMI Jesu! Mater ridet,
Quæ tam dulcem somnum videt,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!

Si non dormis, Mater plorat,

Inter fila cantans orat

Blande, veni, somnule.

ENGLISH.

Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling:
Mother sits beside thee smiling:
Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth
Come, soft slumber, balmily!

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

TS balmy lips the infant blest
Relaxing from its mother's breast,
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh
Of innocent satiety !

And such my infant's latest sigh!
O tell, rude stone! the passer-by,
That here a pretty babe doth lie,
Death sang to sleep with lullaby.

MELANCHOLY.*

A FRAGMENT.

TRETCHED on a mouldered Abbey's
broadest wall,

Where ruining ivies propt the ruins
steep-

Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall,
Had Melancholy mused herself to sleep.
The fern was pressed beneath her hair,
The dark green Adder's Tongue + was there;
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak,
The long lank leaf bowed fluttering o'er her cheek.

That pallid cheek was flushed: her eager look Beamed eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought, Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook, And her bent forehead worked with troubled thought.

Strange was the dream that filled her soul,

Nor did not whispering spirits roll

A mystic tumult, and a fateful rhyme
Mixed with wild shapings of the unborn time.

First published in the Morning Chronicle, in the year 1794.

† A botanical mistake. The plant I meant is called the Hart's Tongue; but this would unluckily spoil the poetical effect. Cedat ergo Botanice.

TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE.

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG.

I.

ARK this holy chapel well!

The birth-place, this, of William Tell.
Here, where stands God's altar dread,
Stood his parents' marriage-bed.

II.

Here first, an infant to her breast,

Him his loving mother prest;

And kissed the babe, and blessed the day,
And prayed as mothers use to pray.

III.

"Vouchsafe him health, O God! and give
The child Thy servant still to live!"
But God had destined to do more
Through him, than through an armed power.

IV.

God gave him reverence of laws,

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause

A spirit to His rocks akin,

The

eye

of the hawk, and the fire therein.

V.

To Nature and to Holy Writ

Alone did God the boy commit:

Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft
His soul found wings, and soared aloft !

VI.

The straining oar and chamois chase
Had formed his limbs to strength and grace:
On wave and wind the boy would toss,
Was great, nor knew how great he was!

VII.

He knew not that his chosen hand,
Made strong by God, his native land
Would rescue from the shameful yoke
Of Slavery-the which he broke !

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

I.

HE Shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:

And now they checked their eager
tread,

For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.

II.

They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone, suspending night! While sweeter than a Mother's song, Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth, Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.

III.

She listened to the tale divine,

And closer still the Babe she pressed;
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:

Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

IV.

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate! That strife should vanish, battle cease, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story, Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

V.

And is not War a youthful king,
A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;

Him earth's majestic monarchs hail

Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

VI.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean,

And therefore is my soul elate.

War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child!

VII.

"A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son;