But one must the sound be, and one the call
Which from the dust shall awaken us all :
One!-but to severed and distant dooms;
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs?

F. HEMANS.

CXLI

THE DYING INFANT.

Sleep, little baby! sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast,
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But with the quiet dead.

Yes-with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be!

Oh! many a weary wight,

Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling!

Flee to thy grassy nest;

There the first flowers shall blow,

The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! peace! The little bosom

Labours with shortening breath :Peace! peace! That tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh !—

Those are the damps of death,

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee;
But never then wert thou
So beautiful, as now,

Baby, thou seem'st to me!

Thine upturned eyes glazed over,
Like harebells wet with dew;
Already veiled and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Mount up, immortal essence!

Young spirit, haste, depart!— And is this death ?-Dread thing!

If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

BOWLES.

CXLII

FIDELE.

Fear no more the heat of the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

SHAKESPEARE.

CXLIII

GREEK ISLANDER'S SONG OF EXILE.

Where is the sea? I languish here

Where is my own blue sea ?

With all its barks in fleet career,

And flags and breezes free?

I miss that voice of waves which first

Awoke my childhood's glee;

The measured chime, the thundering burst— Where is my own blue sea?

Oh, rich your myrtle's breath may rise,
Soft, soft your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me dies-
Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd's mountain note,
I hear the whispering tree;

The echoes of my soul are mute-
Where is my own blue sea?

F. HEMANS.

A A

CXLIV

VIOLETS.

Under the green hedges after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow,
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads
Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.

Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky,
Down there do the dear little violets lie;

Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,

By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.

MOULTRIE.

CXLV

SONGS OF BIRDS.

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?

O'tis the ravished nightingale.

"Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise.

Brave prick song! who is 't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.