THE FIRST GRAVE IN THE NEW CHURCHYARD AT BROMPTON. A SINGLE grave! the only one A single grave! my heart has felt How utterly alone In crowded halls, were breathed for me The shade where forest-trees shut out I've felt the loneliness of night When the dark winds pass'd by : A single grave! we half forget When round the silent place of rest We stand beneath the haunted yew, The place is purified with hope, The hope that is of prayer; And human love, and heavenward thought, The wild flowers spring amid the grass, And many a stone appears, Wet with affection's tears. The golden chord which binds us all I do not know who sleeps beneath, Perhaps this is too fanciful:- Those gentler charities which draw Y 2 CAROLINE E. S. NORTON. THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years, Yet patient of rebuke when justly given: And meekly cheerful-such wert thou, my child! Not willing to be left; still by my side Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying, Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. Oh! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made Then thou, my merry love-bold in thy glee, Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth! Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And thine was many an art to win and bless, The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming' Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound. At length thou eamest; thou, the last and least; Nicknamed "the Emperor" by thy laughing brothBecause a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast, [ers, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile A mimic majesty that made us smile: And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful scheming; Fair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless brow, Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming: And proud the lifting of thy stately head, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim, I, that all other love had been forswearing, Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; Nor injured either by this love's comparing; Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, But in the mother's heart found room for all! JOHN WILSON. 1789-1820. LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. To whom belongs this valley fair, Silent as infant at the breast, Save a still sound that speaks of rest, The heavens appear to love this vale; By that blue arch, this beauteous earth Oh that this lovely vale were mine! There would unto my soul be given, And thoughts would come of mystic mood, Eternity of Time! And did I ask to whom belong'd |