I miss thee from my side,
With thy query oft repeated;
On thy rocking-horse astride,
Or beneath my table seated;
Or when, tired and overheated
With a summer day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,
Sleep hath overpowered thee quite !
I miss thee from my side
When brisk Punch is at the door;
Vainly pummels he his bride,
Judy's wrongs can charm no more!
He may beat her till she 's sore,
She may die, and he may flee;
Though I loved their squalls of yore,
What's the pageant now to me!
I miss thee from my side
When the light of day grows pale;
When with eyelids opened wide,
Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale,
And the murdered babes bewail;
Yet so greedy of thy pain,
That when all my lore would fail,
I must needs begin again.
I miss thee from my side
In the haunts that late were thine; Where thy twinkling feet would glide, And thy clasping fingers twine ;Here are checkered tumblers nine,Silent relics of thy play ;
Here the mimic tea-things shine,
Thou wouldst wash the livelong day.
Thy drum hangs on the wall;
The bird-organ sounds are o'er;
Dogs and horses, great and small-
Wanting some a leg or more;
Cows and sheep,-a motley store-
All are stabled near thy bed;
And not one but can restore
Memories sweet of him that's fled.
I miss thee from my side,
Blithe cricket of my hearth!
Oft in secret I have sighed
For thy chirping voice of mirth :
When the low-born cares of earth
Chill my heart, or dim my eye,
Grief is stifled in its birth,
If my little prattler's nigh!
I miss thee from my side,
With thy bright ingenuous smile;
With thy glance of infant pride,
And the face no tears defile ;-
Stay, and other hearts beguile,
Hearts that prize thee fondly too;
I must spare thy pranks awhile;
Cricket of my hearth, adieu!
THE FROZEN DOVE..
AWAY from the path! silly dove,
Where the foot that may carelessly tread
Will crush thee! What! dost thou not move?
thou art stiffened and dead!
Allured by the brightness of day,
To sink 'mid the shadows of night,
Too far from the cote thou didst stray,
And sadly hast ended thy flight!
For, thus, with the snow at thy breast,
With thy wing folded close to thy side,
And couched in the semblance of rest,
Alone of the cold thou hast died!
Poor Bird! thou hast pictured the fate
Of many in life's sunny day,
Who, trusting, have found but too late,
How fortune can smile to betray.
How oft, for illusions that shine
In a cold and a pitiless world,
Bewildered and palsied, like thine,
Has the wing of the spirit been furled.
The heart the most tender and light,
In its warmth to the earth has been thrown With the chill of adversity's night,
To suffer and perish alone.
MELROSE ABBEY.
If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress alternately
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go, but go alone the while
Then view St. David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!
In other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little speck and blemish find;
To our own stronger errors blind.
A turkey, tired of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood;
Behind her ran an infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.
"Draw near, my birds," the mother cries,
"This hill delicious fare supplies.
Behold the busy creeping race,
See millions blacken all the place!
Fear not, like me with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat.
How blessed, how envied were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife!
But man, harsh man, on turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days;—
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savory chine.
From the low peasant to the lord,
The turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men for, gluttony are curst,
Of the seven deadly sins the worst."
An ant who climbed beyond his reach,
Thus answered from the neighboring beech:
"Ere you remark another's sin,
Bid thy own conscience look within.
Control thy more voracious bill,
Nor for a breakfast nations kill."
THE wind is sweeping o'er the hill,
It hath a mournful sound,
As if it felt the difference
Its weary wing hath found.
A little while that wandering wind
Swept over leaf and flower:
For there was green for every tree,
And bloom for every hour.
It wandered through the pleasant wood,
And caught the dove's lone song;
And by the garden beds, and bore
The rose's breath along.
But hoarse and sullenly it sweeps ;
No rose is open now-
No music, for the wood-dove's nest
Is vacant on the bough.
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