less fair, 'Tis self that turns to pain and poisonous hate The calm clear life of love the angels lead. Shall sunder us who once have O, that 'twere possible this self to burn In the pure flames of joy contemplative! THE PRAYER TO MNEMOSYNE. LADY, when first the message came to me Of thy great hope and all thy future bliss, I had no envy of that happiness Which sets a limit to our joy in thee: But uttering orisons to gods who see Our mortal strife, and bidding them to bless LITTLE KINDNESSES. The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarian juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort, which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet in the ear Of him who thought to die unmourned, 'twill fall Like choicest music, fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again, And shed on the departing soul, a sense More precious than the benison of friends About the honored death-bed of the rich To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near, and feels. ON THE RECEPTION OF WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD. OH! never did a mighty truth prevail With such felicities of place and time As in those shouts sent forth with joy sublime Fram the full heart of England's youth, to hail Her once neglected bard within the pale Of Learning's fairest citadel! That voice, In which the future thunders, bids rejoice Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail To bless with love as deep as life, the name Thus welcomed;· who in happy silence share The triumph; while their fondest musings claim Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous air, That to their long-loved poet's spirit bear. A nation's promise of undying fame. ROBERT TANNAHILL. the midgeS DANCE ABOON THE | How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft BURN. THE midges dance aboon the burn; The dews begin to fa'; The pairtricks down the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'. Beneath the golden gloamin' sky To charm the ling'ring day; Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, Spread fragrance through the dell. The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me. THE FLOWER O DUMBLANE. fauldin' blossom, THE sun has gane down o'er the Though mine were the station o' lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. BAYARD TAYLOR. ON THE HEADLAND. I SIT on the lonely headland, And the sea is gray below. In the world's deserted round. I pine for something human, Man, woman, young or old,— Something to meet and welcome, Something to clasp and hold. I have a mouth for kisses, But there's no one to give and I have a heart in my bosom O warmth of love that is wasted! I could fondle the fisherman's baby, I could take the sunburnt sailor, The sea might rise and drown me; THE FATHER. THE fateful hour, when death stood by And stretched his threatening hand in vain. Is over now, and life's first cry Speaks feeble triumph through its pain. |