DAVID HOLT.

TO MOSS AND IVY.

FROM POEMS, RURAL AND MISCEL-
LANEOUS." 1846.

TWIN Sisters, growing on the ancient walls
Which are Time's monuments-rich tapestry,
That wreathe your garlands in chivalric halls,
Outrivalling the page of heraldry!
In desolation's garden ye are fair,
And Ruin loves you-ye her children are.

How solemn-when the silent moon reclines
Upon the broken arch, the ruined tower,
And thro' the shafted oriel brightly shines—
How solemn, then, to rove at such an hour,
And trace your fragile trellice-work on high
Upon the surface of the deep blue sky!

Ye grow when man hath ceased to cultivate,
So, ye are nature's own!-the wreath she bears
To Time, her father; and ye do create

A chart whereon to trace the lapse of years,
Creeping and growing o'er the shatter'd stone,
In your own simple majesty, alone.

In old ancestral mansions, where, oh, where

Are lordly brows and eyes-the soft and bright? Where the brave soldier? where the matchless fair?

The gentle lady and the courtly knight?

Through the high lattice moss and ivy still

Peep forth and whisper, "We their places fill."

THE MOTHER'S HAND.

CHARLES SWAIN.

A WANDERING orphan child was I--
And meanly at the best attired;
For, oh my mother scarce could buy
The common food each week required;

But when the anxious day had fled,
It seem'd to be her dearest joy,

To press her pale hand on my head,

And pray that God would guide her boy.

But more, each winter, more and more
Stern suffering brought her to decay ;
And then an Angel pass'd her door,

And bore her lingering soul away!
And I-they know not what is grief
Who ne'er knelt by a dying bed;
All other woe on earth is brief,

Save that which weeps a mother dead.

A seaman's life was soon my lot,
'Mid reckless deeds, and desperate men;
But still I never quite forgot

The prayer I ne'er should hear again;
And oft, when half induced to tread
Such paths as unto sin decoy,

I've felt her fond hand press my head-
And that soft touch hath saved her boy!

Though hard their mockery to receive,

Who ne'er themselves 'gainst sin had striven, Her who, on earth, I dared not grieve,

I could not, would not, grieve in heaven; And thus from many an action dread,

Too dark for human eyes to scan,

The same fond hand upon my head

That bless'd the boy hath saved the man!

A FAIRY SONG.

MRS. JAMES GRAY; BORN AT THE ELMS, NEAR MAIDENHEAD,
BERKSHIRE, ON THE 24TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1812: DIED
AT SUNDAY'S WELL, CORK, JANUARY 28, 1845.

FROM the alder bushes,

From the daisies' home,
From the bending rushes,
Come, come, come!
I am spirit weary,
Weary of the earth;
I would be a fairy,
Joining in your mirth!
At my wishes take me,

Little fairy elves;
By your magic, make me

Even as yourselves!
From the mossy hollow,

From the lily's dome,
Follow, follow, follow,
Come, come, come !

Shall we to the river?

Shall we to the mead,

Where the dew drops quiver,

Where the rainbows feed? In yon airy palace,

I will lightliest trip; From the acorn chalice,

Deepest will I sip! Bring me to the waters

By the brisk wind fann'd; Let me see the daughters Of your happy land! Or where monsters wallow,

'Neath the white sea foam, Follow, follow, follow! Come, come, come !

'Neath the glistening laurel,
In the moon's pale light,
Or 'midst the branching coral,
Where sea-bones are white,
In earth, air, or ocean,

Stars, or flower, or dew;
Anywhere for motion,
Anywhere with you!
So shall come forgetting
Of the days gone by ;
So shall come the setting
Of each rising sigh.
Skim we like the swallow!

Wheresoe'er we roam;

Follow, follow, follow,

Come, come, come!