112

MY EARLY DAYS.

MY EARLY DAYS.

I WONDER What they have done with the pine, Where the red-breast used to sing

With the maple too where the wandering vine So wildly used to fling

Its loaded arms from bough to bough

And if they gather the grapes there now.

I should like to know if they've killed the bee, And carried away the hive;

If they've broken the heart of my chesnut-tree,
Or left it to still survive,

And its laughing burrs are showering down
Their loosened treasures of shining down.

And there was a beautiful pond, that stood

Like an ample azure vase;

Or a mirror embosom'd in wild green wood,
For the sun to see his face ;-

Have they torn up its lilies to open a sluice
And let that peaceful prisoner loose?

Perhaps they have ruined the ancient oak
That gave me its ample shade;

And its own dead root in its bed is broke
By the plough from its branches made.
Nor am I sure I could find the spot
Where I had my bower and my mossy grot.

MY

EARLY DAYS.

113

And shall I go back to my first loved home
To find how all is changed,

Alone o'er those altered scenes to roam,

From my early self estranged? Shall I bend me over the glassy brook,

No more on the face of a child to look ?

No! no! for that loveliest spot upon earth,
Let memory's charm suffice!

But the spirit will long to the place of her birth,
From time and its change to rise-

To soar and recover her primal bloom

When death with his trophy has stopped at the

tomb.

HANNAH F. GOULD.

A

PEACE BE AROUND THEE.

PEACE be around thee, wherever thou rovest;
May life be for thee one summer's day,
And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lovest,
Come smiling around thy summer way;
If sorrow e'er this calm should break,

May even thy tears pass off so lightly,
Like spring-showers they 'll only make

The smiles that follow shine more brightly.

May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all,
And daily dooms some joy to death,
O'er thee let years so gently fall,

They shall not crush one flower beneath.
As half in shade and half in sun

This world along its path advances,

May that side the sun's upon

Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

T. MOORE.

SONNET.

115

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH OF JANUARY, 1793. THE BIRTH DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A

THRUSH SING, IN A MORNING WALK.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign
At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content, with light, unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments-bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou, whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with

thee I'll share.

ROBERT BURNS.

116 THE NATAL GENIUS.

THE NATAL GENIUS.

A DREAM.

TO

IN witching slumbers of the night,
I dreamt I was the airy sprite

That on thy natal moment smiled;
And thought I wafted on my wing
Those flowers which in Elysium spring,
To crown my lovely mortal child.

With olive-branch I bound thy head,
Hearts-ease along thy path I shed,

Which was to bloom through all thy years;

Nor yet did I forget to bind

Love's roses, with his myrtle twined,
And dew'd by sympathetic tears.

Such was the wild but precious boon
Which Fancy, at her magic noon,

Bade me to Nona's image pay;
And were it thus my fate to be
Thy little guardian deity,

How blest around thy steps I'd play.

Thy life should glide in peace along
Calm as some lonely shepherd's song