On her brow such shadows are
As the faint cloud gives the star,
Veiling its most holy light,
Though it still be pure and bright;
And the colour in her cheek
To the hue on thine is weak,
Save when flushed with sweet surprise,
Sudden welcomes light her eyes;
And her softly chiseled face
(But for living, moving grace)
Looks like one of those which beam
In th' Italian painter's dream,-
Some beloved Madonna, bending
O'er the infant she is tending;
Holy, bright, and undefiled
Mother of the Heaven-born child;
Who, tho' painted strangely fair,
Seems but made for holy prayer,
Pity, tears, and sweet appeal,
And fondness such as angels feel;
Baffling earthly passion's sigh
With serenest majesty !
Oh! may those enshrouded years Whose fair dawn alone appears,May that brightly budding life, Knowing yet nor sin nor strife,— Bring its store of hoped-for joy, Mother, to thy laughing boy! And the good thou dost impart Lie deep-treasured in his heart, That, when he at length shall strive In the bad world where we live, THY sweet name may still be blest As one who taught his soul true rest! CAROLINE NORTON.
ON THE PICTURE OF AN INFANT PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE.
WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels,
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals!
O fly-yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.— Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. LEONIDAS of Alexandria. (Greek.)
Translation of SAMUEL ROGERS.
THE TOWN CHILD AND COUNTRY CHILD.
SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!
Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.
Upon that tender eye, my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; 'T is sweet to watch for thee-alone for thee!
His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, Would you not say he slept on Death's
Awake, my boy !—I tremble with affright! Awake, and chase this fatal thought!—
Thine eye but for one moment on the light! Even at the price of thine, give me repose!
Sweet error!-he but slept-I breathe again. Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!
O! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?
CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE. (French.) Translation of H. W. LONGFELLOW.
THE CHILD IN THE WILDERNESS.
ENCINCTURED in a twine of leaves-
That leafy twine his only dress-
A lovely boy was plucking fruits
In a moonlight wilderness.
The moon was bright, the air was free,
And fruits and flowers together grew,
And many a shrub, and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air Like a picture rich and rare.
CHILD of the Country! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Born like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new;
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Nursed to sweet music on the knee,
Lulled in the breast to that sweet tune
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June
I sing of thee;-'tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.
Child of the Town! for thee I sigh;
A gilded roof's thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy daisied sod,
A narrow street thy boundless wood,
Thy rushing deer 's the clattering tramp
of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp,—
Through smoke, and not through trellised
vines
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines:
I sing of thee in sadness; where
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair?
Child of the Country! thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet:
With thee I wander forth to see
The flowers which most delight the bee;
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April while she nursed her young;
The dew beneath the sloe-thorn, where
She bred her twins the timorous hare;
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild blue bells,
Where brown bees build their balmy cells,
The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
Where trouts leap when the day is cool;
The shilfa's nest that seems to be
A portion of the sheltering tree,
And other marvels which my verse
Can find no language to rehearse.
Child of the Town! for thee, alas!
Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass;
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun
Glad streams come singing as they run:
A Maypole is thy blossomed tree;
A beetle is thy murmuring bee;
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where
The poulterer dwells, beside the hare;
Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound
Hawked, clamorous, o'er the city round.
No roses, twin-born on the stalk,
Perfume thee in thy evening walk;
No voice of birds,-but to thee comes
The mingled din of cars and drums,
And startling cries, such as are rife
When wine and wassail waken strife.
Child of the Country! on the lawn
I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring;
Bright as the sun when from the cloud
He comes as cocks are crowing loud;
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now hunting Echo's empty sound,
Now climbing up some old tall tree-
For climbing's sake-'T is sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,
Or share with thee thy venturous throne.
Child of the Town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet!
Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles;
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak;
And thou art cabined and confined,
At once from sun, and dew, and wind,
Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthened walks of slippery stone.
The coachman there careering reels,
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels;
And Commerce pours each prosing son
In pelf's pursuit and halloos "Run!"
While flushed with wine, and stung at play,
Men rush from darkness into day.
The stream's too strong for thy small bark;
There nought can sail, save what is stark.
Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower;
A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb o'er which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you, from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope and holiness, and God.
THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES.
THAT way look, my infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall-
Withered leaves,-one, two, and three,-
From the lofty elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round, they sink
Softly, slowly; one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or fairy hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute
In his wavering parachute.
-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now,-now one,-
Now they stop, and there are none.
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap! Half-way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again;
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!
'Tis a pretty baby treat, Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here for neither Babe nor me Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things That with stir of feet and wings, (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade,) And with busy revellings, Chirp, and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale, so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away, Never more to breathe the day. Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighborhood; And, among the kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside.
Where is he, that giddy sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colors bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree-
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out-
Hung, head pointing towards the ground,
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound-
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
Prettiest tumbler ever seen!
Light of heart, and light of limb--
What is now become of him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighboring rill
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy.
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gayety?
Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature-
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show-
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,—
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Dora's face-
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay.
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
Pleased by any random toy-
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy-
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss,
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought—
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling leaf.
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