Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one, Warbling so fairily close to my ear; Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me, This that I made for your mother to hear? Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one, Why should I think of her tears, that might Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars? Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one! Is she not like her whenever she stirs ? Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me, Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one, Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave, Something more white than her bosom is spared to me, Something to cling to and something to crave. Love, love, Ellen, my little one! The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud Upon that battle-morn whose night-dews wet his shroud; The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest; The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast; The swan's last song is sweetest. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. ENID'S SONG. FROM "IDYLS OF THE KING." TURN, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared For man is man and master of his fate. A RIDDLE.* THE LETTER "H." 'T WAS in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. is crowned. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'T will not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. CATHARINE FANSHAWE. THE GIFTS OF GOD. WHEN God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, Let us (said he) pour on him all we can : Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span. So strength first made a way; Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that, alone, of all his treasure, Rest in the bottom lay. For if I should (said he) Bestow this jewel also on my creature, Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness: Let him be rich and weary, that, at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast. GEORGE HERBERT. FATHER LAND AND MOTHER TONGUE. OUR Father Land! and wouldst thou know It is that Adam here below Was made of earth by Nature's hand; Do call our country Father Land. Made Adam soon surpass the birds; She gave him lovely Eve because If he 'd a wife they must have words. And so the native land, I hold, By male descent is proudly mine; The language, as the tale hath told, Was given in the female line. Sometimes attributed to Byron. A TRAVELLER through a dusty road strewed In this the lust, in that the avarice, acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice. In this one passion man can strength enjoy, Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe As fits give vigor just when they destroy. its early vows; Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand, And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand. beneath its boughs; Consistent in our follies and our sins, The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds Here honest Nature ends as she begins. Old politicians chew on wisdom past, Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate. The doctor, called, declares all help too late. "Mercy!" cries Helluo, "mercy on my soul ! Is there no hope? - Alas!-then bring the jowl." The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still tries to save the hallowed taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. "Odious! in woollen! 't would a saint provoke," Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ; dead, And-Betty - give this cheek a little red.” The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all human-kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, "If — where I'm going —I could serve you, sir?” "I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sighed) "my lands and tenements to Ned." Your money, sir? My money, sir! what, all? Why-if I must " (then wept)—"I give it Paul." Not that, I cannot part with that,” — and The manor, sir? "The manor, hold!" he cried, 66 died. |