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-
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile:
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,

Like parting wings of Seraphim,

Who say,

"We 've finished here."

LEIGH HUNT.

Song.

FROM KING HENRY THE EIGHTH."

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing.
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung: as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care, and grief of heart,

Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

SHAKSPEARL.

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk,

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalise,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bids me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precepts were her own;
And while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall wear a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing Son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile!-it answers, Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?-It was.-Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And disappointed still, was still deceived; By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,

I learned at last submission to my lot,

But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,

"T is now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own
Short-lived possession! But the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid,
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and, more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?