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Where far away the jasmines dwell,
And where the myrrh-trees weep !
Bless'd, on the sounding surge and foam,

Are tidings of the citron's home !

The sailor at the helm they meet,
And hope his bosom stirs,

Upspringing, 'midst the waves to greet
The fair earth's messengers,

That woo him, from the mournful main,

Back to her glorious bowers again.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales
Of many a flowering glade,

And fount's bright gleam in island-vales
Of golden-fruited shade;

Across his lone ship's wake they bring

A vision and a glow of spring !

And oh! ye masters of the lay !
Come not e'en thus your songs,

That meet us on life's weary way
Amidst her toiling throngs?

Yes! o'er the spirit thus they bear

A current of celestial air

Their power is from the brighter clime
That in our birth hath part,
Their tones are of the world which time
Sears not within the heart;
They tell us of the living light
In its green places ever bright.

They call us with a voice divine
Back to our early love,

Our vows of youth at many a shrine
Whence far and soon we rove :

—Welcome, high thought and holy strain,

That make us Truth's and Heaven's again!”

* Written immediately after reading the “Remarks on the Character and Writings of Milton,” in the Christian

Examiner.

TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27 AUGUST, 1825.

Thou wak'st from happy sleep to play
With bounding heart, my boy
Before thee lies a long bright day

Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye;—

Long be it thus—life's early stream
Should still reflect the sky.

Yet ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit's wings,
Now in thy morn forget not Him

From whom each pure thought springs:

So in the onward vale of tears,
Where'er thy path may be,
When strength hath bow'd to evil years—

He will remember thee.

TO A YOUNGER CHILD

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 17 SEPTEMBER, 1825.

Where sucks the bee now 2–Summer is flying,
Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying;
Violets are gone from the grassy dell,
With the cowslip-cups, where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath pass'd away—

Yet happy, fair boy is thy natal day.

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smil'd
Ever around thee, my gentle child !
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.
Roses may vanish, but this will stay—
Happy and bright is thy natal day.

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

THERE were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water—dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still,
They seem'd but pictur'd glooms—a hidden rill,
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down,
And steep'd the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,
A tale of Palestine.*—Meanwhile the bee

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,

* The Talisman—Tales of the Crusaders.

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