These things are in my mind, but neuer yet
Vouchsaf'd to lodge within my cabinet.

My euer liuing, euer longing King
Yet shall from me receiue a better thing;
For princes diademes,

Flaming with gemmes,
With richesse drest

Of east and west,

Match not this gift, wch if God shall owne,
I'll not change lots with him that weares a crowne.

An heart with penitence made new and cleane, Fill'd with faith, hope, and loue, must be my strane. My God, yt didst not slight,

The widowes mite,

Accept of this

Poore sacrifice,

Though I here give but what before was Thine
A treasure taken out of thine owne mine.

THE MOTHERLESS.

You'r weary, precious ones! your eyes
Are wandering far and wide;

Think ye of her, who knew so well

Your tender thoughts to guide;
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore
Your fixed attention claim?
Ah! never from your hearts erase
That blessed mother's name!

"Tis time to say your evening hymn,
My youngest infant dove!

Come, press thy velvet cheek to mine,
And learn the lay of love;

My sheltering arms can clasp you all,
My poor, deserted throng!
Cling, as you used to cling to her
Who sings the angels' song.

Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain,

Come, warble loud and clear;

Alas! alas! you're weeping all,

You're sobbing in my ear!

Good night-go say the prayer she taught

Beside your little bed;

The lips that used to bless you then

Are silent with the dead!

A father's hand your course may guide
Among the thorns of life;

His care protect these shrinking plants
That dread the storms of strife:

But who upon your infant hearts

Shall like that mother write?

Who touch the strings that rule the soul?
Dear, smitten flock! Good night!

TO SPRING.

Whence, oh sweet Spring, whence does thy balmy air

Borrow such touch of sadness? And thy sky

So purely blue, so delicately fair,

Why does it so bedim the earnest

eye

?

Alas, that gale o'er fairer flowers hath past

Than those which now may meet our wishful

gaze;

That sky with glory far too bright to last,
Was gilded by the suns of other days.

Thou wak'st remembrances, and dim regrets, Summoning the lest-the absent-ours no more And every sun of thine before it sets

Tells us of days and scenes for ever o'er.

Tis then from memory's holy land thy breath Borrows such touch of sadness, and thy voice,

By her inspired, reminds our souls of death,
Of blighted hopes and well-remembered joys:
And shall it not remind us too of hope ?"

And bid us raise our sorrowing souls above?
Where the bright skies no tinge of sadness wear
Through all the spring-time of eternal love.

DIRGE.

MRS. HEMANS.

Earth! guard what here we lay in holy trust;1
That which hath left our home a darkened place,~
Wanting the form; the smile, now veiled in dust,
The light departed with our loveliest face.
Yet from thy bonds undying hope springs free-
We have but lent our beautiful to thee.

But thou, oh Heaven! keep, keep what thou hast taken,

And with our tears O keep our hearts on high!" The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken,

The faith, the love, the lofty constancy,

Guide us where these are with our sister flown They were of Thee, and thou hast claimed thine

THE DEATH OF A CHILD IN APRIL

(ADDRESSED TO ITS PARENTS.)

Say, is it spring in heaven, as now on earth, That tender buds should be demanded there ? That from your flow'rets of terrestrial birth,

One, all acknowledged lovely, sweet and rare, Should thus be called and safely borne away. To ope its petals to celestial day?

You have one flow'ret less, and HE one more : But yours must know the cold, and blight and storm;

His shall be nurtured where no tempests roar,

No change nor death may touch the gentle form. Then do not grieve when more to you are given, To offer up one bud to bloom in heaven!

THE IDOL.

Whatever passes as a cloud, between
The mental eye of faith, and things unseen,,
Causing that brighter world' to disappear,
Or seem less lovely and its hope less dear,
This is our world. our idol, though it bear
Affection's impress or devotion's air.