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Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent

them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have

left
A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white;
And some, memorial none where once they grew.' :
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth
Proof not contemptible of what she can,
Even where death predominates. The Spring
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force
Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'ring wood,
So much thy juniors, wbo their birth receiv'd
Half a millennium since the date of thine.

But since, although well qualified by age
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice
May be expected from thee, seated here
On thy distorted root, with hearers none,
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform
Myself the oracle, and will discourse
In my own car such matter as I

may.
One man alone, the father of us all,
Drew not his life from woman; never gaz'd,
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw,
On all around him; learn'd not by degrees,
Nor ow'd articulation to his ear;
But, moulded by his Maker into man
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd
All creatures, with precision understood
Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd

To each his name significant, and, fill’d
With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heav'n
In praise harmonious the first air he drew.
He was excus'd the penalties of dull
Minority. No tutor charg'd his hand
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind
With problems. History, not wanted yet,
Lean'd.on her elbow, watching Time, whose course,
Eventful, should supply her with a theme; ....

TO MARY.

The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast ;
Ah would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow-
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more ;

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dșt the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight'
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little foree resign;
Yet gently preșt, press gently mine,

My Mary!

1

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary!
And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

TO MRS. ANNE BODHAM,

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE BY

HERSELF.

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more

Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,

I thank thee for my purse.

Gold pays the worth of all things here ;
But not of Love ;-that gem's too dear

For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of Love,
Esteem thy present far above

The best things kept within it.

LINES ON HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here !
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face, renews my

filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

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