If near these helpless little fays, thy master's children

came

The doubtful tread of stranger's feet, on whom they had no claim;

Then, then, upspringing with a bound,-aroused for their defence,

Each nerve would arm with savage strength thy keen and eager sense,

And the darkly gleaming eyes where now such softened shadows play,

Would burn like watch-fires, lit at night, to scare the foe away.

And were the danger real to these, by whom thy watch is kept,

E'er a rough hand should dare profane the cradle where they slept,

E'er a rude step should reach the spot where now they smile at play,

Thy fangs would meet within his throat to hold the wretch at bay!

Thou would'st battle, noble creature, for these children of thy lord's,

As men fight for a Royal Prince, whose crown hangs on their swords ;

Soldiers, who hear their General's cry, by treachery hemm'd in,

Freemen, who strike for home and hearth, 'gainst Tyranny's proud sin,

So would'st thou strive! And bold where he who then could lay thee low,

For still thy fierce and mighty grasp would pin the struggling foe,

And if keen sword, or human skill, cut short thy gasping breath,

Should he be thought thy conqueror ?—No!-Thy conqueror would be Death.

Oh, tried and trusted! Thou whose love ne'er changes nor forsakes,

Thou proof how perfect God hath stamped the meanest thing he makes;

Thou, whom no snare entraps to serve, no art is used to tame,

(Train'd, like ourselves, thy path to know, by words of love and blame ;)

Friend! who beside the cottage door, or in the rich man's hall,

With steadfast faith still answerest the one familiar

Well by poor hearth and lordly home thy couchant form

may rest,

And Prince and Peasant trust thee still, to guard what they love best.

THE FORSAKEN.

Suggested by an Italian picture, of a dying girl, to whom the lute is being

played.

I.

Ir is the music of her native land,—

The airs she used to love in happier days; The lute is struck by some young gentle hand, To soothe her spirit with remembered lays.

II.

But her sad heart is wandering from the notes,
Her ear is fill'd with an imagin'd strain;
Vainly the soften'd music round her floats,
The echo it awakes is all of pain!

III.

The echo it awakes, is of a voice

Which never more her weary heart shall cheer; Fain would she banish it, but hath no choice,

Its vanish'd sound still haunts her shrinking ear,

V.

Still haunts her with its tones of joy and love,
Its memories of bitterness and wrong,

Bidding her thoughts through various changes rove,-
Welcomes, farewells, and snatches of wild song.

V.

Why bring her music? She had half forgot
How left, how lonely, how oppress'd she was;
Why, by these strains, recall her former lot,
The depth of all her suffering and its cause?

VI.

Know ye not what a spell there is in sound?
Know ye not that the melody of words
Is nothing to the power that wanders round,
Giving vague language to harmonious chords?

VII.

Oh! keep ye silence! He hath sung to her,

And from that hour-(faint twilight, sweet and dim, When the low breeze scarce made the branches stir)— Music hath been a memory of HIM!

VIII.

Chords which the wandering fingers scarcely touch
When they would seek for some forgotten song,—
Stray notes which have no certain meaning, such
As careless hands unthinkingly prolong,—

IX.

Come unto HER, fraught with a vivid dream
Of love, in all its wild and passionate strength,-

Of sunsets, glittering on the purple stream,

Of shadows, deepening into twilight length,—

X.

Of gentle sounds, when the warm world lay hush'd
Beneath the soft breath of the evening air,-
Of hopes and fears, and expectations crush',
By one long certainty of blank despair!

XI.

Bear to the sick man's couch the fiery cup,
Pledged by wild feasters in their riotous hours,
And bid his parch'd lips drink the poison up,
As though its foam held cool refreshing powers,—

XII.

Lift some poor wounded wretch, whose writhing pain
Finds soothing only in an utter rest,

Forth in some rude-made litter, to regain
Strength for his limbs and vigour for his breast ;—

XIII.

But soothe ye not that proud forsaken heart

With strains whose sweetness maddens as they fall; Untroubled let her feverish soul depart

Not long shall memory's power its might enthral;

XIV.

Not long, though balmy be the summer's breath!
In the deep stillness of its golden light,
A shadowy spirit sits, whose name is DEATH,
And turns, what was all beauty, into blight;