Marian, who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'er."
It is not that I envy autumn there,
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none; Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one-
Shakspeare; nor yet, oh no-that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.
No; but it is, that on this very day,
And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,
Was born the lass that I love more and more ;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art: a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age one tune they bore ;
Marian,-who makes my heart and very rhymes
run o'er.
SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A P'CKNESS,
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
* Pershore, or Pearshore, on the Avon; so named probably from its abundance of pears.
Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Óf fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly 'midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;
My light, where'er I go,
My bird, when prison-bound,
My hand in hand companion,-no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
To say "He has departed"— "His voice"-"his face"-is gone; To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on; Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping!
This silence too the while-
It's very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile: Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of Seraphim, Who say, "We've finished here."
AH little ranting Johnny,
For ever blithe and bonny,
And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses;
And strutting in and out so,
Or dancing all about so,
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
And cheeks as ripe as apples,
And head as rough as Dapple's
And arms as sunny shining
As if their veins they'd wine in ·
And mouth that smiles so truly,
Heav'n seems to have made it newly,
It breaks into such sweetness
With merry-lipp'd completeness ;-
Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio,
As blithe as Laughing Trio,
-Sir Richard, too, you rattler,
So christened from the Tatler,-
My Bacchus in his glory,
My little Cor-di-fiori,
My tricksome Puck, my Robin,
Who in and out come bobbing,
As full of feints and frolic as
That fibbing rogue Autolycus,
And play the graceless robber on
Your grave-eyed brother Oberon, —
Ah! Dick, ah Dolce-riso,
How can you, can you be so ?
One cannot turn a minute,
But mischief-there you 're in it,
A getting at my books, John,
With mighty bustling looks, John;
Or poking at the roses,
In midst of which your nose is ;
Or climbing on a table,
No matter how unstable,
And turning up your quaint eye
And half-shut teeth with "Mayn't I?"
Or else you 're off at play, John,
Just as you'd be all day, John,
With hat or not, as happens,
And there you dance, and clap hands,
Or on the grass go rolling,
Or plucking flow'rs, or bowling,
And getting me expenses
With losing balls o'er fences;
Or, as the constant trade is,
Are fondled by the ladies
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