THE FIRST GRAVE IN THE NEW CHURCHYARD AT BROMPTON A SINGLE grave! the only one Where yet the garden-leaf and flower A single grave! my heart has felt How utterly alone In crowded halls, were breathed for me The shade where forest-trees shut out I've felt the loneliness of night When the dark winds pass'd by: A single grave! we half forget When round the silent place of rest We stand beneath the haunted yew, The place is purified with hope, And human love, and heavenward thought, And pious faith are there. The wild flowers spring amid the grass, And many a stone appears, Carved by affection's memory, Wet with affection's tears. The golden chord which binds us all And love, and hope, and fear unite I do not know who sleeps beneath, Perhaps this is too fanciful: Those gentler charities which draw Those sweet humanities which make Y 2 CAROLINE E. S. NORTON. THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years, Yet patient of rebuke when justly given: And meekly cheerful-such wert thou, my child! Not willing to be left; still by my side Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying, Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. Oh! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made Then thou, my merry love-bold in thy glee, Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth! Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply, Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark blue eye! And thine was many an art to win and bless, The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming' Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound. At length thou camest; thou, the last and least; Nicknamed "the Emperor" by thy laughing brothBecause a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast, [ers, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile A mimic majesty that made us smile: And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful scheming; Fair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless brow, Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming: And proud the lifting of thy stately head, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim, I, that all other love had been forswearing, Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; Nor injured either by this love's comparing; Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, But in the mother's heart found room for all! LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. To whom belongs this valley fair, Silent as infant at the breast, The heavens appear to love this vale; By that blue arch, this beauteous earth Oh that this lovely vale were mine! There would unto my soul be given, And thoughts would come of mystic mood, Eternity of Time! And did I ask to whom belong'd |