Nor tell me of the lily,

Ye poets of the flowers, Nor rose, while I have Milly

To beautify my hours.

ON SEEING CHARLIE AT PLAY.

ERE thy locks of golden light
Change to winter's snowy white,

And old Care has passed his plough

O'er the sunshine of thy brow;

Ere a troop of sorrows march

O'er thy pretty eyebrows' arch,
And each brow reversed wears
Footprints of the woes of years;
Whilst thine eyes, like sable sloes,
Each with lustrous beauty glows,

Whilst they sparkle forth their glee,

At the shout of revelry;

Ere those orbs that, wondering, stand

Looking out on fairy land,

To cavernous shades retire,

Sullen with their wasted fire,

Shrinking from each ray of hope,
Like a peevish misanthrope;
Ere the rose has fled thy cheek,

Whilst thy coral lips are sleek,

And sweet smiles around them play,
Sportive as a dancing fay,

Whilst thine ears to bend are slow,

To the tenderest tale of woe;

Whilst thy parent's fondest strain
Lures thee to the daisied plain;
Whilst sweet music tunes thy breath,
And thy thoughts are free from death;

Like the lark, go dance and sing,
Making all the welkin ring;

As the butterfly and bee,

Let thy wanderings be free,

And, throughout thy May-time hours,

Live upon the sweetest flowers;

Happy, happy days for thee,

Days of love and poesy.

AFFECTION'S ARGUMENT.

THE aspen quivers in the breeze,
The cuckoo singeth mellow;

The perfume drops from hawthorn trees

Let's roam where the king-cup 's yellow.

We'll cradle up our infant child,

And take our evening's ramble,

Adown the paths of woodland wild,

Through briar, thorn, and bramble.

I know in thy maternal breast

There dwells a sense of duty, More lovely than the crimson west, That robes the sun in beauty; But still, I know, there is a charm

Reigns o'er each scene enchanting,

When we together, arm in arm,

Its beauties are descanting.

So toil not, gentle labourer,

I pray thee, toil not so;
Let's wander where the fragrant air

Doth health and joy bestow:

Or else I fear thy rosy cheek

Soon pale in death will be ;

And then, alas! where could I seek

The bliss I find with thee?

What boots it if we win this earth,

By striving and by toiling,

If we to dire disease give birth,

And cherish health's despoiling? So leave, my love, this pent-up spot, Thy every fear detaching; Angels will hover o'er its cot,

The babe benignly watching;

And let us up some shady lane,

All torrent-washed and wearing, To watch the pale moon's silver wane, And take a gentle airing.

The antlered oak, the fretted thorn,

Thee to their nooks are wooing;

Whilst songs are on the breezes borne,
And turtle-doves are cooing.

So toil not, gentle labourer,

I pray thee, toil not so;
Let's wander where the fragrant air

Doth health and joy bestow;