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, And its laughing burrs are showering down And there was a beautiful pond, that stood Like an ample azure vase; Or a mirror embosom'd in wild green wood, Have they torn up its lilies to open a sluice Perhaps they have ruined the ancient oak And its own dead root in its bed is broke MY EARLY DAYS. 113 And shall I go back to my first loved home 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, But the spirit will long to the place of her birth, 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 even thy tears pass off so lightly, The smiles that follow shine more brightly. May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all, They shall not crush one flower beneath. 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, 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, Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, thee I'll share. ROBERT BURNS. 116 THE NATAL GENIUS. THE NATAL GENIUS. A DREAM. TO IN witching slumbers of the night, That on thy natal moment smiled; With olive-branch I bound thy head, Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind Love's roses, with his myrtle twined, Such was the wild but precious boon Bade me to Nona's image pay; How blest around thy steps I'd play. Thy life should glide in peace along |