Then, Rivers, tell my mother earth, I come To slumber on her breast! For, lo, my drooping thoughts refuse to bloom! FUNERAL HYMN. FATHER! our brother's course is run, He thank'd Thee, God of earth and sky, For weeds, that silent anthems raise, And thoughts, that make their silence praise. For every thorn and every flower! He thank'd the Lord of sun and cloud. For soul to feel and sight to see, In all thy works, but types of Thee; He thank'd Thee too for struggles long; Oh, welcome in the morn, the road Thou sayst to man, "Arise, and run What though with eyes that yet can weep, The sinner trembles into sleep? Thou know'st he yet shall wake and rise To gaze on Mercy's brightest skies. The fearful child, though still caress'd, But he, she knows, is safe from ill, Lord! when our brother wakes, may they, Who watch beneath thy footstool, say, "Another wanderer is forgiven ! Another child is born in heav'n !" FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. FLOWERS! winter flowers !-the child is dead, Look, Mother, on thy little one! She cannot weep-more faint she grows, More deadly pale and still : Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose, That tiny hand to fill. Go, search the fields! the lichen wet Bends o'er th' unfailing well; Beneath the furrow lingers yet The scarlet pimpernel. Peeps not a snowdrop in the bower, A daisy? Ah! bring childhood's flower! FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. Yes, lay the daisy's little head O haste the last of five is dead! 65 TO FANNY. BRITONESS! angels love in thee But angels do not bow the knee For others' woes thy bosom bleeds; But why of words, and forms, and creeds, Does true religion war on mind? Is pure religion deaf and blind? They best serve God, who serve mankind; O then contemn the base and cold! VOL. II. F Thou bid'st me scorn this world of care; "For better worlds," thou say'st, "prepare!" Not I-if angel forms are there Apologists of tyranny. Where Milton's eyes, no longer dim, Sing Tory odes to Castlereagh. A POET'S EPITAPH. STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow, and the moor; His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace and the grave! The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, He fear'd to scorn or hate; And honour'd in a peasant's form The equal of the great. |