Skies are bright above thee,
Peace and quiet love thee,
Tranquil little dell;
In thy fragrant bowers
Twining wreaths of flowers,
Love and friendship dwell.
May our spirits daily
Be like thee, sweet valley,
Tranquil and serene;
Emblem to us given,
Of the vales of heaven,
Ever bright and green.
TO DAFFODILS.
FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet, the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd its noon.
Stay, stay
Until the hasting day
But to the even-song;
And having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or any thing.
Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
ARE there who, always fond of changing,
Still in quest of pleasures roam ?
From scene to scene for ever ranging,
Unconscious of the sweets of Home?
Oh! what a thousand tender pleasures,
To the wanderer quite unknown,
Lurk in the winning sphere she measures,
And number the delights of Home.
There the heart congenial meets you,
There affection's sunbeams play,
Dear domestic duties greet you
In this spot where'er you stray.
Tuned to love's delightful measure,
There you hear the soothing tone,
And the rosy smile of pleasure
Lights a welcome to your Home.
Free from vain or pert intrusion,
The swiftly circling minutes fly,
And within this dear seclusion
Ambush'd joys and pleasures lie.
Droops the heart with pain or anguish,
Do the spirits feel a gloom ?
Oh, how healing love's soft language,
How endearing then is Home!
THOUGHTS OF HOME.
How my heart is ever turning
To my distant birthplace fair!
Sister, in our France, the morning
Smileth so rare!
Home! my love is on thy shore
For evermore!
Dost remember how our mother
Oft, our cottage fire beside,
Bless'd the maiden and her brother,
In her heart's pride,-
And they smooth'd her silver hair
With tender prayer?
Dost remember still the palace
Hanging o'er the river Dore?
And that giant of the valleys,
The Moorish tower,
Where the bell, at dawning gray,
Did waken day?
And the lake, with trees that hide it,
Where the swallow skimmeth low ?
And the slender reeds beside it,
That soft airs bow ?
How the sunshine of the west
Lovéd its calm breast!
And Hélène, that one belovéd
Friend of all my early hours,
How through greenwood we two roved,
Playing with flowers,
Listening at the old oak's feet,
Our two hearts beat!
Give me back my oaks and meadows,
And my dearly loved Hélène ;
One and all are now but shadows,
Bringing strange pain.
Home! my love is on thy shore
For evermore !
THE CHILD'S VISION.
"WHAT Sounds so sweet awake me?
What fills me with delight?
O mother, look! who sings thus
So sweetly through the night?"
"I hear not, child, I see not;
Oh, sleep thou softly on!
Comes now to serenade thee,
Thou poor sick maiden, none!"
"It is not earthly music
That fills me with delight;
I hear the angels call me :
O mother dear, good night!'
TO A CHILD, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF
I MISS thee from my side,
With thy merry eyes and blue;
From thy crib, at morning tide,
Oft its curtains peeping through—
In the kisses, not a few,
Thou wert wont to give me then;
In the sleepy, sad adieu,
When 'twas time for bed again!
I miss thee from my side,
With thy query oft repeated;
On thy rocking-horse astride,
Or beneath my table seated;-
Or, when tired and overheated
With a summer day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,
Sleep hath overpower'd thee quite!
I miss thee from my side,
When the light of day grows pale;
When, with eyelids opened wide,
Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale,
And the murder'd babes bewail;
Yet so greedy of thy pain,
That when all my lore would fail,
I must needs begin again!
I miss thee from my side,
In the haunts that late were thine;
Where thy twinkling feet would glide,
And thy clasping fingers twine;
Here are chequer'd tumblers nine-
Silent relics of thy play-
Here the mimic tea-things shine,
Thou wouldst wash the live-long day!
Thy drum hangs on the wall;
Thy bird-organ sounds are o'er,
Dogs and horses, great and small,
Wanting some a leg or more;
Cows and sheep-a motley store-
All are stabled 'neath thy bed;
And not one but can restore
Memories sweet of him that's fled.
I miss thee from my side,
Blithe cricket of my hearth!
Oft in secret have I sigh'd
For thy chirping voice of mirth;
When the low-bred cares of earth
Chill my heart or dim my eye,
Grief is stifled in its birth
If my little prattler's nigh!
SONG OF THE IRISH PEASANT'S WIFE. COME, Patrick, clear up the storms on your brow; You were kind to me once-will you frown on me now; Shall the storm settle here when from heaven it departs, And the cold from without finds its way to our hearts? No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather Is easily borne when we bear it together.
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