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A younger sister for the heart;
Her hair is brown and bright;
Never can the memory part
The flower of fairy lore.
In a morning hour, Catch the fairy seeming of this fairy flower ?
Winning it with eager eyes, From the old enchanted stories,
Lingering with a long delight,
Giving us a sweet surprise
The flower of fairy lore?
Too long in the meadow staying,
Where the cowslip bends, With the buttercups delaying As with early friends,
Did the little maiden stay.
We, too, loiter mid life's flowers,
All love lingering on their way,
The flower of fairy lore.
THE FIRST GRAVE IN THE NEW CHURCHYARD AT BROMPTON.
A SINGLE grave! the only one
In this unbroken ground,
Are lingering around.
How utterly alone
Not one familiar tone;
The shade where forest-trees shut out
All but the distant sky;
When the dark winds pass'd by:
My lip has gasp'd for breath;
The solitude of death!
A single grave! we half forget
How sunder human ties,
A gather'd kindred lies.
And watch each quiet tomb;
Solemnity, not gloom :
The place is purified with hope,
The hope that is of prayer;
And pious faith are there.
And many a stone appears,
Wet with affection's tears.
The golden chord which binds us all
Is loosed, not rent in twain; And love, and hope, and fear unite
To bring the past again. But this grave is so desolate,
With no remembering stone; No fellow-graves for sympathy
'Tis utterly alone. I do not know who sleeps beneath,
His history or name; Whether if, lonely in his life,
He is in death the same; Whether he died unloved, unmournid,
The last leaf on the bough; Or if some desolated hearth
Is weeping for him now. Perhaps this is too fanciful:
Though single be his sod,
The presence of his God.
But yet its kindliest, best :
It could be less repress'd.
Man closer with his kind;
The music which they find. How many a bitter word 'twould hush,
How many a pang 'twould save, If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave!
CAROLINE E. S. NORTON.
THE MOTHER'S HEART.
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
And natural piety that lean’d to Heaven;
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given:
Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying;
Through the dark room where I was sadly lying,
Oh! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower-
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower;
Then thou, my merry love-bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy!
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth;
And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth;
And thine was many an art to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;
The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming'
At length thou camest; thou, the last and least;
Nicknamed “the Emperor" by thy laughing broth-
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others;
And oh! most like a regal child wert thou !
An eye of resolute and successful scheming;
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming :
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Nor injured either by this love's comparing;