The river must run bright; the ripples play Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure; The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure; And the rich orchards, in their sunniest robes, Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.

And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest

To sing in here, though by the house's side?
As if I could not in a minute, rest

In leafy fields, rural, and self-possest,

Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks, On t'other, London, with it's wealth of books?

It is not that I envy 'Autumn there,

Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none; Nor yet that in it's all-productive air

Was born Humanity's divinest son,

That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one, Shakspeare; nor yet,-oh no,-that here I miss Souls, not unworthy to be named with his :

No; but it is that on this very day,

And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,*
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art; a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age, one tune they bore;
MARIAN,-who makes my heart and very rhymes
run o'er.

* Pershore or Pearshore, on the Avon; so named from it's quantity of pears.

ΤΟ

T** L** H**,

SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,

My little, patient Boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think

Of all thy winning ways;

Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,

That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,

These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,

I will not think of now;

And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press

And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness, The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new, Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too;

My light, where'er I go,

My bird, when prison bound, My hand in hand companion,-no,

My prayers shall hold thee round.