In every cottage-porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.
And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
Where in dim chambers long black weeds are seen;
And weepings heard where only joy has been;
When by his children borne, and from the door
Slowly departing, to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with those that went before.
And such is human life; so gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretch'd in the desert round their evening fire;
any song of old in hall or bower
To minstrel harps at midnight's witching hour!



POOR dog! and art thou dead? even as a dream
To me, who know the truth, thy fate would seem;
Thou wert so full of strength, so fond of play-
Last week all strength, and now a thing of clay!
I look as thou couldst enter, and I hark,
As if I hop'd once more to hear thy bark.
Alas! that sight is now a vision o'er!
Alas! that sound is hush'd for evermore.

Yes! all thy services have found an end,
Thou most obsequious slave, yet stanchest friend ;

No more, when tir'd and languid, shalt thou bless
My vacant hour with gambol and caress;

And, when return'd from absence, I shall see
Thine eyes no more gleam welcome back to me !
Through eight long chequer'd years thy love was

And night beheld thee ever at my side;
Partaker of my gladness and my gloom,-
Yea, had Fate call'd thee, freely of my tomb.-
Art thou then, Boxer, but a thing which cast
A household gleam of joy on seasons past,-
A vanish'd toy,-a figure intertwin'd

In memory's net,-a day-dream of the mind?
And shall I hearken, as I near the door,
Thy pattering step and honest bark no more?

Yet can I e'er forget, how, night and day,
When sickness held me, by my couch you lay,
Unwearied, uncomplaining; and how kind,
When first I rose, you lick'd my hand and whin'd;
Look'd in my pale face with delighted eye,

And wagg'd thy tail to say, Thou must not die !—
And all the houshold lov'd thee,-thou to them
Wert as a love-link, a domestic gem:

In thee bound up was many a cherish'd thought,
And home-sensations by thy sight were brought:
Where'er 'twas ours to rest, 'twas ours to roam,
Thy presence was a spell, that spake of home-
A nook of calm, amid a world of strife-
A sheltering haven from the storms of life.

Now thou art dead-in health, upon thee came
Unnerving palsy, and relax'd thy frame:
Day after day we hop'd to see thee rise,
But read thou couldst not in thy helpless cries;

Yet, when we patted thee, 'twas sore to brook
The silent kindness of thy placid look,
As if with life's last throb could but depart
Thy love, thy care, thy stedfastness of heart;
And that thy worst of sufferings was the pain,
That thou shouldst follow not our steps again.
Poor generous animal, 'twas sad to see
Thy helpless case, yet firm fidelity;
To read the longing wish within thine eyes,
Yet see thee struggle, but in vain, to rise:-
We mourn'd thee, waning weaker every hour,
Till scarce to raise thy head remain'd the
And such distressful thoughts thy misery bred,
That we were glad at last to know thee dead!


Farewell, brute pattern of an honest heart; And if for thee a tear unwonted start,

'Tis all I can repay

thee for a love

That neither time could chill, nor dangers move;
For guardianship through midnights dark and drear,
For thou wert watchful, and devoid of fear;
And hours of kind companionship, which would,
But for thy presence, have been solitude.
Whether we roam'd unseen 'mid summer leaves;
Or 'mid the autumn's ripe and redden'd sheaves;
Or 'mid the frost-bound moorlands, when the day
Gleam'd from the low south with enfeebled ray,
And thou wouldst chase the crow, and scare the lark,
And toss aloft the feathery snows, and bark.

Still'd the warm heart, whose truth disdain'd to move,

And clos'd the eyes that ever beam'd with love; Now thou art laid beneath the garden trees

Where thou hast lain to snuff the summer breeze;

Wildflowers shall shoot above thy grassy bed,
Birds sing; and blossoms wither o'er thy head;
And surely never, when we pass the spot,
Where low thou moulder'st, shalt thou be forgot.

Farewell, poor dog! a heartfelt last farewell!
And ere the thoughts of thee have lost their spell,—
As days on days their billowy hours expand,
And dim the lines of Memory's figur'd sand,-
From thy unwearied care, thy sleepless zeal,
Thy fearless daring for thy master's weal,
A precious lesson let my spirit find,
And learn to be as pure as thou wert kind;
To keep in faith as firm, from fault as free,
And cling to Virtue, as thou didst to me!


THE stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their green-sward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;


And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told ;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath-hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;

All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

The Cottage-Homes of England!
By thousands, on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there they lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,

May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!



green for ever be the
And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its Country and its God!

Mrs. Hemans.


DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago—
Alas how time escapes!-'tis even so-
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat
A tedious hour-and now we never meet!

« VorigeDoorgaan »