In praise harmonious the first air he drew.
He was excused the penalties of dull
Minority. No tutor charged his hand
With the thought-tracing quill, or tasked his
mind

With problems. History, not wanted yet,
Leaned on her elbow, watching Time, whose

course,

Eventful, should supply her with a theme.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.

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 immortalize, —
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 bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave 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 bliss
Ah, 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 words shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my con

cern,

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 sorrow 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 bawble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
"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 warmily laid;

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery 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 humor 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 honors 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?

I would not trust my heart;· -the dear de

light

-

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.