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Oh no, we never speak of Her!

171

AN AFTER-THOUGHT.

With one who lived of old, my song

In lowly cadence rose ;
To one who is unborn, belong

The accents of its close;
Ages to come, with courteous ear,
Some youth my warning voice may hear;
And voices from the dead should be
The warnings of eternity.

When these weak lines thy presence greet,

Reader ! if I am bless'd,
Again, as spirits, may we meet

In glory and in rest :
If not—and I have lost my way,
Here part we-go not thou astray;
No tomb, no verse my story tell !
Once, and for ever, fare thee well.

Oh no, we never speak of Her!

BY T. H. BAYLY.

0

H no, we never speak of her

Her name is never heard ;
My lips are now forbid to breathe

That once familiar word!
From sport to sport they hurry me,

To banish my regret ;
And when they win a smile from me,

They think that I forget.

They bid me seek in change of scene

The charms that others see; But were I in a foreign land,

They'd find no change in me. 'Tis true that I behold no more

The valley where we met;
I do not see the hawthorn-tree-

But how can I forget ?

For ah, there are so many things

Recall the past to me-
The breeze upon the sunny hill,

The billows on the sea ;
The rosy tints that deck the sky

Before the sun is set-
Ay, every leaf I look upon

Forbids me to forget.

They tell me she is happy now,

The gayest of the gay; They say that she forgets me,

But I heed not what they say: Like me, perhaps, she struggles with

Each feeling of regret;
But if she loves as I have loved,

She never can forget.

To a Child.

173

To a Child,

SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICKNESS.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

SLEEI

LEEP 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 pillow'd 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.

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My light where'er I go,
My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion-no,

My prayers shall hold thee round!

To say, "He has departed”—

“ His voice”_" his face"_"is gone;" To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on;

Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure

That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping!

This silence, too, the while
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile ;-

Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of cherubim,

“We've finish'd here."

Who say,

Ta the Rainha w.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

TRIU 'RIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

To the Rainbow

175

Still seem as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach unfold

Thy form to please me so,
As when I dream'd of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow ?

When Science from Creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place

To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams

Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth

To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled

O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child

To bless the bow of God.

Methinks thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang
On earth, deliver'd from the deep,

And the first poet sang.

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