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.

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 fixed, and sleeping!
This silence too the while-

It's very hush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile:

Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear,

Like parting wings of Cherubim,

Who say,

"We've finished here."

TO J. H.,

FOUR YEARS OLD;-A NURSERY SONG.

Pien d'amori,

Pien di canti, e pien di fiori.

FRUGONI.

Full of little loves for ours,

Full of songs, and full of flowers.

AH little ranting Johnny,

For ever blithe and bonny,

And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes
With voice in silver gushes;

Or twisting random posies

With daisies, weeds, and roses;

And strutting in and out so,

Or dancing all about so,

With cock-up nose so lightsome,

And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
And cheeks as ripe as apples,

And head as rough as Dapple's,
And arms as sunny shining

As if their veins they'd wine in;
And mouth that smiles so truly,
Heav'n seems to have made it newly,

It breaks into such sweetness

With merry-lipped completeness;

Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio,

As blithe as Laughing Trio,

-Sir Richard, too, you rattler,
So christened from the Tatler,—

My Bacchus in his glory,
My little Cor-di-fiori,

My tricksome Puck, my Robin,

Who in and out come bobbing,

184

As full of feints and frolic as

That fibbing rogue Autolycus,

And play the graceless robber on

Your grave-eyed brother Oberon,—

Ah! Dick, ah Dolce-riso,

How can you, can you be so?

One cannot turn a minute,

But mischief-there you're in it,

A getting at my books, John,

With mighty bustling looks, John;

Or poking at the roses,

In midst of which your nose is;

Or climbing on a table,

No matter how unstable,

And turning up your quaint eye

And half-shut teeth with "Mayn't I?"

Or else you're off at play, John,

Just as you'd be all day, John,

With hat or not, as happens,

And there you dance, and clap hands,