The hue each fleeting globule wears, That drop bequeaths it to the next; One picture still the surface bears, To illustrate the murmur'd text.

So, love, however time may flow, Fresh hours pursuing those that fiee, One constant image still shall show My tide of life is true to thee.

SONG.

THERE is dew for the flow'ret
And honey for the bee,
And bowers for the wild bird,
And love for you and me.

There are tears for the many
And pleasures for the few;
But let the world pass on, dear,
There's love for me and you.

There is care that will not leave us
And pain that will not flee;

But on our hearth unalter'd

Sits Love-'tween you and me.

Our love it ne'er was reckon'd,

Yet good it is and true,

It's half the world to me, dear,
It's all the world to you.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birth-day,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heav'n

Than when I was a boy.

* From "Friendship's Offering," 1826.

THE POET'S PORTION.

WHAT is a mine-a treasury—a dower-
A magic talisman of mighty power?
A poet's wide possession of the earth.
He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth
Before its budding-ere the first red streaks,
And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks.

Look-if his dawn be not as other men's!
Twenty bright flushes-ere another kens
The first of sunlight is abroad—he sees
Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees,
And opes the splendid fissures of the morn.

When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn
Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf
Is commonly abroad, in his pil'd sheaf
The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame.

No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name,
But he will sip it first-before the lees.
'Tis his to taste rich honey,-ere the bees
Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall
June's rosy advent for his coronal;

Before th' expectant buds upon the bough,
Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow.

Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed,
Before its leafy presence; for indeed

Leaves are but wings on which the summer flies
And each thing perishable fades and dies,
Escap'd in thought; but his rich thinkings be
Like overflows of immortality:

So that what there is steep'd shall perish never, But live and bloom, and be a joy for ever.

ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD.

WELCOME to Freedom's birth-place-and a den!
Great Anti-climax, hail!

So very lofty in thy front-but then,

So dwindling at the tail!—

In truth, thou hast the most unequal legs!
Has one pair gallop'd, whilst the other trotted,
Along with other brethren, leopard-spotted,
O'er Afric sand, where ostriches lay eggs?
Sure thou wert caught in some hard uphill chase,
Those hinder heels still keeping thee in check!
And yet thou seem'st prepared in any case,
Tho' they had lost the race,

To win it by a neck!

That lengthy neck-how like a crane's it looks!
Art thou the overseer of all the brutes?

Or dost thou browze on tip-top leaves or fruits-
Or go a bird-nesting amongst the rooks?
How kindly nature caters for all wants;
Thus giving unto thee a neck that stretches,
And high food fetches-

To some a long nose, like the elephant's !

Oh! had'st thou any organ to thy bellows,
To turn thy breath to speech in human style,
What secrets thou might'st tell us,
Where now our scientific guesses fail ;
For instance of the Nile,

Whether those Seven Mouths have any tail-
Mayhap thy luck too,

From that high head, as from a lofty hill,
Has let thee see the marvellous Timbuctoo-

Or drink of Niger at its infant rill;

What were the travels of our Major Denham,
Or Clapperton, to thine

In that same line,

If thou could'st only squat thee down and pen 'em!

Strange sights, indeed, thou must have overlook'd,
With eyes held ever in such vantage-stations!
Hast seen, perchance, unhappy white folks cook'd,
And then made free of negro corporations?

Poor wretches saved from cast away three-deckers-
By sooty wreckers—

From hungry waves to have a loss still drearier,

To far exceed the utmost aim of Park

And find themselves, alas! beyond the mark,
In the insides of Africa's Interior!

Live on, Giraffe ! genteelest of raff kind!
Admir'd by noble, and by royal tongues!
May no pernicious wind,

Or English fog, blight thy exotic lungs !
Live on in happy peace, altho' a rarity,
Nor envy thy poor cousin's more outrageous
Parisian popularity;

Whose very leopard-rash is grown contagious,
And worn on gloves and ribbons all about,
Alas! they'll wear him out!

So thou shalt take thy sweet diurnal feeds-
When he is stuff'd with undigested straw,
Sad food that never visited his jaw !
And staring round him with a brace of beads!

JOHN TROT.

A BALLAD.

I.

JOHN TROT he was as tall a lad
As York did ever rear-

As his dear Granny used to say,
He'd make a grenadier.