THE LAST OF SEVEN.

But now in grief she walks alone,
By ev'ry garden bed;

That sister's clasping arm is cold;
That brother's voice is fled.

when she sits beside my chair, With face so pale and meek,

And eyes bent o'er her book, I see

The tear upon her cheek.

Then chide her not; but whisper now,

"Thy trespass is forgiven;"

How canst thou frown in that pale face?
She is the last of seven !

Aris Willmott.

THE GOLDEN BOUGH.

The visit of Æneas to the Sibyl's cave, and the plucking of the Bough, which conducted him to his father, are in the recollection of every reader.

THE Dardan Wanderer, doom'd to flee

O'er ocean desert wide,

Still pin'd his father's face to see,

Still for his father sigh'd.

Long time he sigh'd, nor sigh'd in vain ;
And now his heart beats high;
Blest promise of the Sibyl-strain,
The lonely wood is nigh.

Before his eyes they glide;

And, look, the sacred Bough is given;

His father at his side!

Sweet tale in fancy's colours drawn;
And has the hand of Light

No moral of a fairer dawn

In picture-song to write?

Have we no path of gloom to trace,
No dark cave to descend,

No Bough death's gath'ring cloud to chase,
No Prophet for our friend?

Have we no vanish'd face to seek?
No hand that dried our tear?

No lip that lov'd our childish cheek?
No voice that sooth'd us here?

Though faded now the Eden rose,

Still, ever in its youth,

The Tree of Heavenly Wisdom grows,

In Paradise of Truth.

Pluck this bright Bough of gold! and soon

By Dove of Beauty led,

Thy prayer shall reap a richer boon,

A Father crown thy head.

Aris Willmott.

FOLD thy little hands in pray'r,

By thy list'ning mother's knee;

Now, while thy sunny face is fair,
Sweet-shining through thine auburn hair,
Thine eyes are frank and free;

And loving thoughts, like garlands, bind
To thy dear home thy trusting mind.

A CHILD IN PRAYER.

Thy young heart, as a summer bird,
All day warbles in its nest;
Nor evil thought, nor unkind word,
Life's chilling wintry winds, have stirr'd
The beauty of thy rest;

But snow-time hastens, and decay

Will waste thy home, and numb thy lay.

Thy breast, a bower of bloom and dew,
Where Joy makes music at the door,-
And circled by her mirthful crew,
Hope, the May-queen, dances thro',

Feeding thee with her sweet store.
Time those strings of joy will sever,
Hope may not dance on for ever.

Now thy fond mother's arm is spread
'Neath thy peaceful head at night,
And pausing feet creep round thy bed,
And o'er thy quiet face is shed

The taper's darken'd light;

But that lov'd arm will pass away,

By thee no more those feet will stay,-
Then pray, Child, pray!

89700

Aris Willmott.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY R CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR,

BREAD STREET HILI.

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