The Sick Child.

181

paces slow.

The mother, while its moan ascends,
Pale, o'er the cradle, weeping, bends;
And, all absorbed in speechless woe,
The father round
Behind them close, with clasped hands,
The kindly village matron stands,
Bethinking what she shall direct,
For all night long, without effect,
Her patient care has been applied,
And all her various simples tried,
And glad were she could that be found
Would bring the baby safely round.

Meanwhile, the little innocent
To deeper moans gives ampler vent,
Lifts up its meek but burden'd eye,
As if to say, “Let me but die ;
For me, your cares, your toils give o'er,
To die in peace, I ask no more.”

But who is there with aspect kind,
Where faith, and hope, and love are join'd,
And pity sweet? The man of God,
Who soothes, exhorts, in mildest mood,
And to the pressure of the case
Applies the promises of grace-
Then lifts his pleading voice and eye
To Him enthroned above the sky,
Who, compass'd once with pains and fears,
Utter'd strong cries—wept bitter tears,
And hence his sympathetic glow
He feels for all his people's woe;
For health restored, and length of days,
To the sweet Babe he humbly prays,
But 'specially that he may prove
An heir of faith, a child of love,

That, when withdrawn from mortal eyes,
May bloom immortal in the skies-
And for the downcast parent pair,
Beneath this load of grief and care-
That grace divine may bear them up,
And sweeten even this bitter cup,
Which turns to gall their present hopes,
With consolation's cordial drops-
He pauses. Now the struggle 's done,
His span is closed, his race is run,
No--yet he quivers—Ah! that thrill !
That wistful look-Ah! now how still.
But yesterday the cot was gay
With smiling Virtue's seraph train !
There Sorrow dwells with Death to-day,
When shall the cot be gay again?

On Painting.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL

THOU! by whose expressive art

O

In union with the graces, start,

And sweeter by reflection please. In whose creative hand the hues,

Stolen from yon orient rainbow shine: I bless thee, Promethëan Muse,

And hail thee brightest of the Nine !

On Painting

183

Possessing more than mortal power ;

Persuasive more than poet's tongue, Whose lineage in a raptured hour,

From Love, the lord of Nature, sprung: Does Hope her high possession meet ?

Is Joy triumphant ?-Sorrow flown? Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,

When all we love is all our own.

a

But hush, thou pulse of pleasure dear,

Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; Lone absence plants a pang severe,

Or death inflicts a keener dart : Then for a beam of joy to light

In Memory's sad and wakeful eye; Or banish from the noon of night

Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall Song its witching cadence roll,

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat ? That breathed when soul was knit to soul,

And heart to heart responsive beat. What visions rise to charm, to melt !

The lost, the loved, the dead are near; Oh, hush that strain, too deeply felt,

And cease that silence too severe.

a

But thou serenely silent art,

By Heaven and love both taught to lend A milder solace to the heart;

The sacred image of a friend; All is not lost if yet possess'd

For me that sweet memorial shine, If close and closer to my breast,

I hold the image all divine.

Or gazing through luxurious tears,

Melt over the departed form,
Till Death's cold bosom half appears

With life, and speech, and spirit warm;
She looks, she lives, this transient hour

Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power,

Or Glory's starry diadem.

Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid,

A treasure to my soul has given, When Beauty's canonised shade

Smiles through the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre form of pleasure fled,

Thy softening sweetening tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead,

Even in the loveliest form she wore.

Then bless'd be Nature's guardian Muse,

Whose hand her polish'd grace redeems; Whose tablet of a thousand hues

The mirror of creation seems. From Love began thy high descent;

And lovers, charm'd with gifts of thine, Shall bless thee, mutely eloquent,

And hail thee brightest of the Nine!

The Painter,

185

The Painter.

By Miss LANDON, (L. E. L.)

“ I know not which is the most fatal gift,

Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled
By stars of bright aspect and evil influence."

He was a lonely and neglected child:

His cheek was colourless, save when the flush Of strong emotion master'd its still whiteness : His dark eyes seem'd all heaviness and gloom, So rarely were they raised. His mother's love Was for her other children: they were fair, And had Health's morning hues and sunny looks. She had not seen him when he watch'd the sun Setting at eve, like an idolater, Until his cheek grew crimson in the light Of the so radiant heavens, and his eyes Were eloquently beautiful, all fill'd With earth's most glorious feelings. And his father, A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp Was ever on the bridle or the brand, Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was To sit for hours by a fountain's side Listening its low and melancholy song ; Or wander through the garden silently, As if with leaves and flowers alone he held Aught of companionship. In his first years They sent him to a convent, for they said Its solitude would suit with Guido's mood : And there he dwelt, treasuring those rich thoughts That are the food on which young genius lives. He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome Break from its purple shadows, making glad