Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice

Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice,

Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think That thou, my friend, would'st the first victim fall

To the stern King of Terrors! thou didst fly, By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; And soon thyself wert stretch'd beneath the pall,

Livid Infection's prey. The deep distress

Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, To whom thy faith was vow'd, thy soul was true,

What pow'rs of falt'ring language shall express ?

As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own, And sorrowing say, "Pure spirit, thou art

gone!"

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1260.-ON REVIEWING THE FOREGOING.

I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say,

"Alas! how many friends of youth are dead, How many visions of fair hope have fled, Since first, my Muse, we met: "-So speeds

away

Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing, Stretch'd in the noontide bower, as if the day Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds shine!

Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night, Religion, may we bless thy purer light, That still shall warm us, when the tints decline

O'er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze On the vain visions of our passing days!

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1261.-PATH OF LIFE.

Oh Lord-in sickness and in health, To every lot resign'd,

Grant me, before all worldly wealth, A meek and thankful mind.

As life, thy upland path we tread,
And often pause in pain,

To think of friends and parents dead,
Oh! let us not complain.

The Lord may give or take away,
But nought our faith can move,
While we to Heaven can look, and say,
"Our Father lives above."

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762 Died 1850.

1262.-SUN-RISE.

When from my humble bed I rise,
And see the morning Sun;
Who, glorious in the eastern skies,
His journey has begun;

I think of that Almighty power,

Which call'd this orb from night;
I think how many at this hour
Rejoice beneath its light.

And then I pray, in every land,
Where'er this light is shed,
That all who live may bless the hand
Which gives their daily bread.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1263.-SUMMER'S EVENING. As homeward by the evening star I pass along the plain,

I see the taper's light afar

Shine through our cottage-pane.

My brothers and my sisters dear,
The child upon the knee,
Spring, when my hastening steps they hear,
And smile to welcome me.

And when the fire is growing dim,

And mother's labours cease,

I fold my hands, and say my hymn,
And lay me down in peace."

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1264.-SPRING.-CUCKOO.

The bee is humming in the sun,
The yellow cowslip springs,
And hark! from yonder woodland's side,
Again the cuckoo sings!
"Cuckoo-Cuckoo!" no other note,

She sings from day to day;
But I, though a poor cottage-girl,
Can work, and read, and pray.
And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,
Which heavenly truth displays,
Oh! let me still employ my voice,
In my Redeemer's praise.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1265.-SHEEP-FOLD.

The sheep were in the fold at night;
And now, a new-born lamb
Totters and trembles in the light,
Or bleats beside its dam.

How anxiously the mother tries,

With every tender care,

To screen it from inclement skies,
And the cold morning air!

1267.-BIRD'S NEST.

In yonder brake there is a nest,

But come not, George, too nigh,
Lest the poor mother frighten'd thence,
Should leave her young, and fly.

"Think with what pain, through many a day,
Soft moss and straw she brought;
And let our own dear mother's care
Be present to our thought.

And think how must her heart deplore,
And droop with grief and pain,

If those she rear'd, and nursed, and loved,
She ne'er should see again.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1270.-GLOW-WORM.

Oh! what is this which shines so bright,
And in the lonely place

Hangs out his small green lamp at night,
The dewy bank to grace?

It is a glow-worm-Still and pale
It shines the whole night long,
When only stars, Oh! nightingale,
Seem list'ning to thy song.

And so, amid the world's cold night,
Through good report or ill,
Shines out the humble Christian's light,
As lonely and as still.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1268.-WINTER.-REDBREAST. Poor Robin sits and sings alone, When showers of driving sleet, By the cold winds of winter blown, The cottage casement beat. Come, let us share our chimney-nook, And dry his dripping wing; See, little Mary shuts her book,

And cries, "Poor Robin, sing."

1271.-STAR-LIGHT FROST.

The stars are shining over head,
In the clear frosty night;

So will they shine when we are dead,
As countless and as bright.

For brief the time and short the space
That e'en the proudest have,
Ere they conclude their various race
In silence and the grave.

But the pure soul from dust shall rise,
By our great Saviour's aid,
When the last trump shall rend the skies,
And all the stars shall fade.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

Your tender prime must bleed
Ere you are sweet; but, freed

From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too.

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.

1272.-THE MAID'S LAMENT.

I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke: yet could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!
I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,

"These may she never share!

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate

His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,
And oh! pray, too, for me!

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.

1273.-THE BRIER.

My brier that smelledst sweet,
When gentle Spring's first heat

Ran through thy quiet veins ;
Thou that could'st injure none,
But would'st be left alone,

Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine

remains.

What! hath no poet's lyre

O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier,
Hung fondly ill or well?
And yet, methinks, with thee
A poet's sympathy,

Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell.

Hard usage both must bear,

Few hands your youth will rear,
Few bosoms cherish you

1274.-CHILDREN.

Children are what the mothers are.
No fondest father's fondest care
Can fashion so the infant heart
As those creative beams that dart,
With all their hopes and fears, upon
The cradle of a sleeping son.

His startled eyes with wonder see
A father near him on his knee,
Who wishes all the while to trace
The mother in his future face;
But 't is to her alone uprise
His wakening arms; to her those eyes
Open with joy and not surprise.

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.

1275.-IPHIGENIA AND AGAMEMNON.

Iphigenia, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the king
Had gone away, took his right hand, and
said:

"O father! I am young and very happy.

I do not think the pious Calchas heard Distinctly what the goddess spake ;-old age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, While I was resting on her knee both arms, And hitting it to make her mind my words, And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might not he, also, hear one word amiss, Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus ?" The father placed his cheek upon her head, And tears dropt down it; but the king of

To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each

By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change,

I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow;

And (after these who mind us girls the

most)

Adore our own Athene, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes-
But, father, to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers;
And the dark depths of nature heaved and
burst.

He turned away-not far, but silent still.
She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh,
So long a silence seem'd the approach of
death,

And like it. Once again she raised her voice:
"O father! if the ships are now detain'd,
And all your vows move not the gods above,
When the knife strikes me there will be one

1276.-TO MACAULAY.

The dreamy rhymer's measured snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of womankind,
Who wage their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achieved the crowning work
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a Turk.
Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead:
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns;
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.

1277.-THE ONE GRAY HAIR.

The wisest of the wise
Listen to pretty lies,

And love to hear them told;
Doubt not that Solomon
Listen'd to many a one-

Some in his youth, and more when he grew old.

I never sat among

The choir of Wisdom's song,

But pretty lies loved I

As much as any king

When youth was on the wing,

And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by.

Alas! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot,

When one pert lady said-
"O, Landor! I am quite
Bewilder'd with affright;

I see (sit quiet now!) a white hair on your head!

Another, more benign,

Drew out that hair of mine,

And in her own dark hair
Pretended she had found

That one, and twirl'd it round.-
Fair as she was, she never was so fair.
W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.

1278.-'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of Summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore:-Born 1780, Died1852.

1279.-WREATHE THE BOWL.

Wreathe the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heav'n to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us!
Should Love amid

The wreaths be hid

That Joy, the enchanter, brings us,
No danger fear

While wine is near-
We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heav'n to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us!

'Twas nectar fed

Of old, it's said,

Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
And man may brew

His nectar too;

The rich receipt's as follows:-
Take wine like this;
Let looks of bliss

Around it well be blended;
Then bring Wit's beam
To warm the stream,

And there's your nectar, splendid!
So wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heav'n to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us!

Say, why did Time
His glass sublime

Fill up with sands unsightly,
When wine he knew

Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly?

Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,

The glass in two we'd sever,
Make pleasure glide

In double tide,

And fill both ends for ever!
Then wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heav'n to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us! Thomas Moore.-Born 1780 Died 1852.

1280.-FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Wit's electric flame

Ne'er so swiftly passes As when through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray

From the starred dominions :So we, sages, sit,

And 'mid bumpers bright'ning, From the heaven of wit

Draw down all its lightning.

Would'st thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away

The living fires that warm us:

The careless Youth, when up
To glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup

To hide the pilfer'd fire in.-
But oh his joy, when, round

The halls of heaven spying Among the stars, he found

A bowl of Bacchus lying!

Some drops were in that bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the sparks of soul Mix'd their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us; Hence its mighty power

O'er that flame within us.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852.

1281.-AND DOTH NOT A MEETING

LIKE THIS.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends

For all the long years I've been wand'ring

away

To see thus around me my youth's early friends,

As smiling and kind as in that happy day? Though haply o'er some of your brows, as

o'er mine,

The snow-fall of Time may be stealing-what then?