AN ASPIRATION.

ALMIGHTY FATHER! hear my humble pray'r,
And condescend to dry a widow's tear!
In Thee I trust—blest with thy mighty aid,
No dark despair my bosom shall invade.
O give me grace to know and do thy will—
A mother's duties teach me to fulfil:
Let my example to my children prove
How much I feel for them, how much I love.
Permit the fatherless thy love to share—
Shield them from Vice and Folly's baneful snare;
Inspire their minds with hope of future bliss,
And faith, to seek a better world than this.

Though deep adversity my portion be,
And sad reverse—I bow to thy decree.

AN EPISTLE
TO A BELOVED SISTER.

                    Canst thou quite forget
Each little incident when last we met?
Does busy Memory ever bring to mind
The fatal day I left my friends behind,
And sought a home, far from that spot rever'd,
Where we in bonds of love had all been rear'd?
Though with a husband and dear children blest,
A secret sad presage then fill'd my breast!
Each cherish'd form is now before my view—
I hear the friendly wish, the fond adieu;
In the full eye the pearly tear-drop trace,
And feel the pressure of each dear embrace:
But now the coach had reach'd its destin'd inn,
And all my little ones were plac'd within:
One ling'ring look—for more we could not stay—
The rattling wheels must bear us far away!

Five years have scarce elaps'd—but how severe
The strange and dire events to me appear!

May Hagley's shades, of which the poets sing,
Heal thy past woes, and brighter prospects bring;
May health, with peace and love thy dwelling grace,
And ev'ry needful comfort find a place.
If this be granted, ask not to be great,
For thine, believe me, is the happier state.
Should former friends thy humbler lot deride,
Pity the folly of such thoughtless pride.

Write to me soon—each late occurrence tell:
Is Mrs. B——, are both her children well?
Do they improve? To watch th' unfolding mind
Yields us a rapture none but mothers find.
Say, does thy fair and noble Patroness
Smile on thy efforts? Dost thou hope success?
God grant thee health, thy duties to attend!
Thus prays thy sister and most anxious friend.

[This dear sister died a few months after.]

VERSES,
COMPOSED AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT.

I awoke, and my curtain withdrew,
    In a conflict of sorrows and fears:
Near my window a sycamore grew,
    And its branches were laden with tears:

For the storm in the night had been rude,
    And Autumn had mellow'd its leaves;
The red pavement with numbers was strew'd—
    For its foliage my sycamore grieves.

A birch standing by, droop'd its head,
    In low moanings it seem'd to complain;
For its beauty had faded and fled,
    Torn away by the wind and the rain.

But the tints of the morning were gay,
    And illumin'd a neighbouring spire;
So brilliant it glow'd, as I lay,
    For an instant I thought it on fire.

Little rest I enjoyed in the night,
    For a fever had throbb'd in my veins;
But I hail'd the new day with delight,
    As a friend that would soften my pains.

Then let me from murmurs refrain:
    When my God thinks it fit to chastise,
I will fear to offend him again,
    And in thankful humility rise.

PRUDENCE.

LET us wander, dear maid, to yonder green glade,
    Where the wild hop and woodbine entwine;
The nightingale's song will awaken ere long,
    Near her bower then let us recline.

Oh no, Henry, no! Indeed I'll not go—
    For perhaps there is something to fear:
Strange tales I could tell of yon lonely dell—
    It is said that wild fairies dance there.

But why, simple maid, shouldst thou be afraid?
    Tiny fairies can do thee no harm:
Thou hast nothing to fear while Henry is near—
    Then banish this needless alarm.

The moon's silver beam now plays on the stream,
    And reminds me that late grows the hour;
The dews wet my feet—no more we thus meet,
    Nor can I, love, go to the bow'r.

Then to-morrow let's hie to the Church standing by,
    For there all alarms will subside;
The altar shall prove my devotion and love;
    Let me call thee my own blooming bride!

To the Church I will go—why should I say no,
    Since long I have felt Love's soft pow'r?
Of thy truth then I'll tell, where wild fairies dwell,
    As together we stray to the bow'r.

THE EXCHANGE.

I had been to the mountain to seek a stray lamb,
    But the wand'rer eluded my care;
Then my search was resum'd to the wild current's dam,
    That border'd my pastures so fair:
But still unsuccessful, I courted repose
    At the foot of a wide-spreading oak,
And sleep was descending my eyelids to close,
    When the voice of a Syren thus spoke:—

"Assist me, young Shepherd, a lambkin I've found,
    'T is a prize I esteem the most rare:
In the stream just below it had nearly been drown'd
    When kind fortune directed me there.
At some risk I secur'd it all dripping with wet,
    And a warm sunny bank being nigh,
I laid down my treasure, nor can I forget
    How I griev'd, for I thought it would die.

"The beautiful eyes were clos'd as in death,
    And the shivering limbs were so cold!
Then it panted, and struggled, and gasp'd for its breath;
    Oh! its sufferings are not to be told.
I sat down and watch'd long, ere yet it would stand,
    Or crop the green herbage around;
And yielded to feelings I could not command,
    When first he arose from the ground.

"I deck'd him with ribbons I wore in my hair,
    And gaz'd with delight on my prize;
But now he's escap'd, notwithstanding my care,
    And bounding away from me flies!"

We soon found the truant—I knew 't was my own,
    Though gaily in ribbons array'd;
But all wish to regain the poor trembler had flown—
    The secret was never betray'd:
Till I found neither absence nor change could remove
    The image that now fill'd my breast:
We met once again, and I breath'd forth my love,
    And now with my fair one am blest!

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

LISTEN, dear, the birds are singing
    In the hazel bush secure;
See the daisies round us springing,
    And the air we breathe is pure.

To the violet bed I'll take thee,
    With perfume it fills the gale,
Primrose wreaths I there will make thee,
    Clusters grow in yonder vale.

If the rose and woodbine please thee,
    I will weave thee garlands fair;
Then, Love, if it will not teaze thee,
    I'll entwine them in thy hair.

Love and Friendship both united,
    What, dear Girl, have we to fear?
Long ago our vows were plighted,
    And those vows were all sincere.

TO MY FRIENDS AT CHECKHILL MILL.

IN the year thirty-three, on a long winter's night,
I thought of dear Friends till my muse took her flight;
On Memory's wings swift as lightning she flew,
Nor thought of repose till she rested on you,
With a smile so benignant, I could not but think
I must lay down my work, and employ pen and ink.
Then I trac'd back those days when we frequently met,
And how happy we were I can never forget:
If a visit to Checkhill were granted, to me
'T was a day of rejoicing, and happy were we.
Across the wild common with heath cover'd o'er
Then I tripp'd it away till arriv'd at your door.
If a glove was forgotten, my shawl pinn'd awry,
Or a bonnet-string missing—(so careless was I)—
Such trifles ne'er pain'd me, I dreamt not of care,
For I knew smiling Welcome awaited me there.

I can see the old house, with its furniture too,
And the jessamine peeping the low casement through;

H— says the old house will be turn'd upside down—
Alas! I exclaim'd, with a sigh and a frown,
Perhaps all my old fav'rites and haunts will be gone—
Not a thing will be left that I valued—not one!

It is useless to fret—then come tell me the news:
Are all of you married? or do you refuse?
How is G—? To himself has he taken a wife,
Or a bachelor will he remain all his life?
Pray how fare the bees—do the pigeons still thrive?
Does the poultry increase—are the swans both alive?

And the faithful old Lion? I fear he's no more—
Does the border of flowers remain at the door?
Is the barn in its place, and the stable and mill?
Does the garden still bloom, at the foot of the hill,
By the murmuring brook deep down in the dell,
Where the daffodils grew by the brink of the well?
You cannot forget how in summer we stroll'd,
And our secrets and love-tales in confidence told.

Thus employ'd as we stray'd from one house to the other,
In order to teaze us, your mischievous brother
Behind the thick hedge for concealment would run,
And then sally forth when our secrets were done.
To chide him was useless—he laugh'd at our pain—
But scarce will he e'er be so wicked again.
Then of course we forgave him—what else could we do?
For our anger amus'd him, and that we all knew.

Oh how happy those days! we had nothing to fear—
Stern death had not robb'd us of those we held dear:
Surrounded by friends, we had no cause of sorrow,
Enjoy'd the time present, nor thought of to-morrow.
But ere long the rude storm of affliction appears,
Death stalks through our dwellings, nor pities our tears.

Sweet visions of youth! ye for ever have flown,
And sorrows of all sorts have some of us known!
Though on this side the grave I may see you no more,
Yet our pilgrimage ended, and troubles all o'er,
In realms everlasting I trust we shall meet,
Where rivers of happiness flow at our feet.
Farewell, early Friends! My muse is grown pale,
And weeping retires from the Mill in the Vale:
Sorrow clouded her brow as she sighing withdrew,
But her love and best wishes are still left with you.

A FAREWELL TO FAN,
A FAVOURITE SPANIEL, DESTROYED AFTER
HAVING BEEN BITTEN BY A DOG
SUPPOSED TO BE MAD.

I grieve, poor Fan, at thy untimely end,
And sigh to think 't was hasten'd by a friend.
But hadst thou liv'd awhile, and then gone mad,
Thy sufferings had been more severely sad.
Thy youthful master's love of thee was great—
A tear he shed at thought of thy hard fate;
And would have nursed thee with the tend'rest care,
If we had dar'd thy fluttering life to spare;
But on thy breast the wound was deep and sore—
Now rest in peace, for all thy pains are o'er.

VERSES,
WRITTEN ON A WINTER EVENING, FOR THE
AMUSEMENT OF A FRIEND, ON AN OCCURRENCE
WHICH TOOK PLACE AT ENVILLE.

Loud blows the blast, the sky's o'ercast,
    And sleet is on the ground:
The shutters close to wind and snows,
    And let the tale go round.

On such a night, as dreary quite,
    But many years ago,
I heard the gate, 't was growing late,
    And fast came down the snow.

My timid maid her fears betray'd,
    And no one else was near:
A moment more, and at the door
    We footsteps plainly hear.

My temples beat, I quit my seat,
    Not knowing what to do;
In great alarm myself I arm
    With tongs and poker too.

No time had I the door to try,
    Ere it flew open wide;
Two ruffans bold, half froze with cold,
    Then enter'd, side by side,

With "Halloo here! a pot of beer,
    And each a glass of gin;
And supper get, for we are wet,
    And frozen to the skin.

"And beds prepare—do n't stand and stare!
    Through snow no more we stray;
What will betide, we here abide,
    Till after break of day."

An infant boy, his mother's joy,
    Was sleeping at my side:
So loud they spoke, the child awoke,
    And lustily he cried.

Thus rous'd, said I, "In vain you cry
    For supper, beer, and gin;
And beds I've none—so pray be gone—
    This house is not an inn.

But come with me, and you will see
    On yonder little green,
A place of rest for man and beast—
    The lights may here be seen."

As they look'd out I turn'd about,
    And bolted fast the door:
They stamp'd and rav'd, admittance crav'd,
    But then I heard no more.

The baby's screams dispell'd my dreams,
    The maid repress'd her fears;
In transport wild I clasp'd my child,
    And kiss'd away his tears.

But oh! the fright of that sad night!
    Methinks I feel it yet.
To lock the door at evening hour
    I never now forget.

REFLECTIONS,
PENNED AT THE FARM, ON A SHOWERY EVENING
IN THE SUMMER OF 1833.

I am blest with a girl and three boys,
    In appearance all healthy and strong;
They add both to my troubles and joys,
    And employ my thoughts all the day long.

One has fallen asleep on my knees,
    With his head on my bosom reclin'd;
And the others are busy as bees,
    Though by rain the whole ev'ning confin'd.

Our cottage is lowly but neat,
    And shaded, and sweetly retir'd:
'T is a quiet and healthy retreat,—
    And splendour I never desir'd.

The garden is pleasant and gay,
    Perfum'd with the breath of its flow'rs;
Among them at ev'ning we stray,
    And there pass our happiest hours.

My dairy and poultry have charms,
    And many choice blessings diffuse;
The latter flock round me in swarms,
    And while they employ me, amuse.

But the farm is so small that I'm sure
    We can ne'er expect wealth to command;
Yet pale want may be kept from the door
    With a very few acres of land.

Active industry keeps us from ills
    Which among the more indolent creep;
Each a portion of labour fulfils,
    And refreshing and sound is our sleep.

Then 't is folly to languish for wealth,
    If Heaven in its bounty bestow
Contentment, with rosy-fac'd Health,—
    The best gifts to frail mortals below.

AN EPISTLE
TO MY HONOURED FATHER.

Dear Father, you promis'd a long time ago,
To pay us a visit, and this you well know.
Now summer is smiling, and all things are gay,
We've expected to hear from you each coming day:
Your room is prepar'd with a warm and soft bed—
Its curtains morine, and their colour is red;
There's a chair for your use at the table and fire,
And a horse in the stable, when one you require.
We have hams, eggs, and poultry, and milk from the cow,
With cream, cheese, and butter—good cheer, you'll allow;
And a nice little garden to choose what you please,
Greens, cabbage, potatoes, beans, carrots, or peas;
Then if sweets and such trifles you happen to prize,
I'll make custards and cheesecakes, with puddings and pies;
But since you're no epicure, perhaps I shall find
(At least I'll endeavour) sweet food for the mind.
Jane and Joseph were saying, "When Grandfather's here,
We can get him his slippers, or hand him his chair;"
"And I (said dear George) can his knees stand between,
While he tells us long stories of what he has seen.

My theme is so pleasing, it is with a sigh,
I leave you, for reasons I'll tell by and by.
There, Jane, take the pen, love, for post time is near,
And I wish for my letter in time to be there.

My mother is busy, and cannot conclude,
But hopes dearest sir, you will not think her rude:
She's grateful for all that in childhood you taught her,
And will ever remain your dutiful Daughter.

An imaginary Ramble with a Friend, through some
of my favourite haunts in the beautiful Pleasure
Grounds of the EARL OF STAMFORD AND WAR-
RINGTON, at Enville, my native village.

DEAR ENVILLE! I still love thee well,
    Thy hills, dales, and valleys, and groves;
Though I'm now far away doom'd to dwell,
    Fond memory oft to thee roves.

Through thy beautiful gardens we'll stray—
    Soft as velvet the sod to our feet—
Art and nature their efforts display,
    And between them have made thee complete.

Thy lakes, with the foaming cascade,
    Have charms more than I can express;
All feel them who enter the shade
    Of the Boat-House, a well-known recess.

Here entranc'd, we inhale the cool breeze,
    As it steals o'er the waters below,
And plays in the neighbouring trees
    That dip in the lake their low bough.

On the Temple Pool's margin we gain
    Of the mansion a picturesque view:
Long may it in splendour remain,
    And, old Time, bid defiance to you!

Through the gate, to the sweet Laurel Grove
    Let us hie without further delay;
And then to the Bastion above
    We will ramble while yet it is day.

Oft and oft on this bridge I have stood,
    Or beneath the old ash ta'en my seat,
And watch'd the impetuous flood
    In wild torrents rush down at my feet.

And, old Bastion, I still bear in mind,
    How I've toil'd to ascend to thy seat,
Where the deep and thick woodlands behind
    Form a cool and a welcome retreat.

And I lov'd the wild views spread before—
    To describe them I do not aspire:
See the Mill!—(my dear father's no more)—
    In the distance peeps Sedgley's tall spire.

As this scene of my youth meets my eyes,
    (Though a shade o'er its prospects was cast),
A sigh in my bosom must rise,
    And a tear-drop to days that are past.

The moss-cover'd Terrace winds round
    To yon fine Gothic Gate on the hill,
Where alcoves for the weary are found,
    Where sweet rapture thy bosom will fill.

Here Nature luxuriant and green,
    In fanciful grandeur we meet;
Hill and dale, wood and lake may be seen,
    With the sloping lawn spread at our feet.

To abide among scenes such as these,
    From whence guilt and ambition retire,
Amid flocks, herds, and poultry, and bees,
    What more can a mortal desire?

But my mind roves instead of my feet:
    Up this dark grassy path we must stray,
And the gloom to my feelings is sweet,
    Though impervious to Sol's brightest ray.

But what a transition is this!
    'T is the Sheep Walks thy senses beguile;
And I feel it will not be amiss,
    To enjoy the rich prospect awhile.

Beneath the deep shade of the yew
    We shall find an agreeable seat;
Yon bright orb so resplendent to view,
    I fear has oppress'd you with heat.

But lo! he will sink in the west,
    Ere we have completed our round;
The flocks are already at rest,
    And the shepherd is homeward bound.

The path to his Lodge he pursues,
    Looking happy, and free from care;
His dwelling would please and amuse,
    If time would permit a trip there.

But we've many dear objects in store—
    The Rotunda we must not forget,
Nor the Chapel—though lock'd is the door,
    A peep through its windows we'll get.

Thus I lead you o'er hill and through dale,
    And we've still something more to admire;
To the Portico down in the vale,
    We now shall with pleasure retire.

See the hare springs with frolicsome bound,
    She fears not in this silent dell;
Here Echo, sweet babbler, is found—
    Here the cuckoo and nightingale dwell.

And this is the wood-pigeon's home,
    In the gloom his dark form you may see;
And here cloth the brown squirrel roam,
    To pluck the sweet nut from the tree.

Our respects we must certainly pay,
    Though embosom'd so deep in the wood,
To the Cottage—come, this is our way,
    It surely for ages hath stood.

Here rural simplicity reigns—
    Here delighted I often have seen,
Proud pea-fowl display their gay trains,
    Adorn'd with gold, purple, and green.

Here numberless warblers reside,
    And their song to the spot gives a charm;
Here their young ones in safety abide,
    In their mossy nests quiet and warm.

But farewell, lovely Cot,—you no more
    On this sweet verdant lawn we shall meet;
May the woodbine still curl round thy door,
    And forget-me-not smile at its feet!

I could loiter to cull the wild flow'r,
    And with garlands bedeck thy low wall;
But must leave thee—for late grows the hour,
    And the dews are beginning to fall.

Through wood and through wild we have stray'd,
    And tarried beside the rude brake;
And now here's a rustic bridge laid,
    That will carry us over the lake.

On its bosom the swans proudly glide,
    And their snowy white plumage display;
While the cygnets crowd close at their side,
    Warmly clad in their garments of grey.

Through the shrubbery we now will retire,
    The Billiard Room stands just before;
And I still have a secret desire
    To visit the gardens once more.

Let us enter, and view the old pile—
    See its wall with green ivy o'erspread:
'T is finished in beautiful style—
    Mark the stuccoing over your head.

Ev'ry object is dear to my heart—
    It is absence hath made them thus dear;
And reluctantly slow I depart,
    For we must not stay lingering here.

To the LORD of the Mansion are due
    My gratitude, duty, and love:
May blessings spread round him! for few
    Thus deserve the best gifts from above:—

For humanity dwells in his breast,
    He drives not the wretch from his door:
His dependents are never oppress'd,
    He's the Father and Friend of the poor.

I had thought we the Village should gain,
    For still a few friends remain there;
But the visit would give me much pain—
    I cannot indeed venture near.

For where are the friends of my youth,
    Or the neighbours I deeply deplore?
Alas! my heart feels the sad truth—
    They are gone—I must see them no more!

Then adieu, dearest ENVILLE, adieu!
    Thy hills, dales, groves, valleys, and streams,
Sportive Fancy still lingers to view,
    And I visit thee oft in my dreams!

THE PERSECUTED.

The man that hath done this shall surely die ... because he did this thing, and because he had no pity.
—2 Sam. xii.

LOOK! near yon elm, beside the tow'r,
    A female form I see:
How came she there at this lone hour
    Who can the stranger be?

Look thou, my friend—thine eyes are strong—
    And tell me, is she fair?
Yes, passing fair—and then so young—
    What can have brought her here?

Her elbow on her knee doth rest—
    One hand supports her head:
Some piercing sorrow tears that breast—
    Her cheek the rose hath fled.

She makes a faint attempt to rise,
    But looks around with fear;
And wildly do those large blue eyes
    Glance through her auburn hair.

Let us with silent step draw near—
    The wandering girl shall see
I for her woes can shed a tear,
    Whate'er their source may be.

"Accept, my dear, a stranger's aid—
    This spot is damp and cold:
Turn not away, nor be afraid,
    But all thy griefs unfold.

"Thy fainting form I'll gently lead
    Away from thorn and brier:
Assistance thou must have with speed—
    Spurn not at my desire

"To take thee to my quiet home,
    Where nought thou hast to fear:
What could induce thee thus to roam,
    No friend nor guardian near?

"The cruel flints have cut thy feet,
    And brambles torn thy dress:
O seek with me a safe retreat—
    Thy woes my soul oppress.

"I'll fold thee to this aching heart,
    And soothe thy ev'ry pain;
And from me thou shalt ne'er depart,
    Till health return again."

"If pitying Heav'n hath sent you here,
    To take my parting sigh,
Then breathe with me the fervent pray'r,
    And teach me how to die!

"I've wander'd many a weary mile
    In paths the most obscure;
But cold and hunger, pain and toil,
    No longer can endure.

"Confin'd within his castle walls,
    My cruel Guardian swore,
I ne'er should quit those hated halls
    Until his name I bore!

"But I escaped that wretched doom,
    Alone, at midnight hour;
And hop'd to find a peaceful tomb
    In yonder ruin'd tow'r."

And soon poor ROSA would have died;
    But Providence had sent
A friend who ev'ry want supplied,
    And bless'd the strange event.

Ere long this dear adopted child
    Repaid my tender cares;
The tedious hours of pain beguil'd,
    And now each sorrow shares.

In beauty's fairest form she moves,
    At once the boast and pride
Of one belov'd, who dearly loves,
    And claims her for his bride.

The wicked Guardian long had sought
    His victim to regain;
But Heav'n o'errul'd his schemes to nought,
    And all his arts were vain.

Contempt without, remorse within,
    Embitter'd all his days;
And now,—the abject slave of sin,—
    On distant shores he strays.

'T is not or wealth, or rank, or pow'r,
    The zest of life can give;
He only who hath Virtue's dow'r
    In peaceful calm can live.

THE VOW.

"Dear Emma! let's turn to the grove—
    The ring-dove's lamenting his mate!
O where doth she carelessly rove?
    Hapless bird! how I pity his fate!

"For if Emma from me had thus stray'd,
    And left me complaining behind:
Till Heav'n had restor'd the dear maid,
    No solace on earth could I find."

"Hush! Heard you that fluttering sound?
    Ah now the poor mourner's at rest:
His faithful companion is found,
    And is cooing with him in the nest.

"Thy pity, my Herbert was meet;
    But the mate of the ring-dove is true:
And I vow, near her leafy retreat,
    To be ever thus faithful to you!"

A LETTER
TO MY DEAR WILLIAM, WHEN AT SCHOOL IN
STAFFORDSHIRE.

I've lock'd the door to 'scape annoy,
While writing to my absent Boy.
Nothing, of late, has pleas'd me better,
Than reading o'er your charming letter;
So nicely written, and so clean,
By all our Friends it may be seen,
Who will acknowledge credit due
Both to your Master and to you.
In ev'ry other work my dear,
Apply with zeal, and persevere;
Diligence and application
Will gain you certain approbation;
Then 't is delightful to excel,
And win just praise for doing well.

Could I but see thy full dark eye,
And roguish smile, 't would give me joy:
Sure such a pleasure is in store,
Then how I'll kiss thee o'er and o'er!

Tell both your Uncle and your Aunt,
This feast of love I greatly want:
There's nothing that I more desire,
Than to be seated by their fire
In social chat—each little grief
From kindred minds would find relief;
And every comfort sweeter prove,
When shar'd with them we fondly love.
Jane and the boys make quite a din,
Because I will not let them in.
But why? they dance and skip about,
And when I'm writing put me out—
Put me out of rhyme in season,
This I tell them is the reason.
Now for supper they are sighing,
And to coax me forth are trying.

Love to your aunts and uncles too—
A double portion, Love for you!
May angels guard thee night and day!
My Father calls—and I obey.

THOUGHTS,
PENNED ON SEEING THE LEAVES VIOLENTLY
TORN FROM A FINE DROOPING ASH.

HOW the storm shakes the leaves from my favourite tree,
    And whirls them about in the air!
Oh be still, cruel blast! for it grieves me to see
    Those branches forsaken and bare.

But a few weeks are gone since its foliage display'd
    A canopy beauteously green:
In the heat of the day I sat under its shade,
    And gaz'd on the rustics unseen,

As they turn'd the new hay in a field near the spot,
    Beguiling the heat with a song;
And laugh'd loud and joyous, their cares all forgot,
    While toiling the herbage among.

The feather'd tribe caroll'd their happiest lay,
    And join'd in the chorus of glee;
And my children came bounding with frolicsome play,
    To the shade of our favourite tree.

But how chang'd is the scene now November is here!
    I languish in sorrow and pain;
And my tree is disrobed, and must leafless appear,
    With Winter's cold blasts to sustain.

But its heart is still sound, and again it shall bloom;
    Its honours sweet Spring shall restore;
And I, though affliction spread round me its gloom,
    In faith to my Saviour will soar.

LINES,
WRITTEN ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL TUFT OF
FORGET-ME-NOT, IN MR YOUNG'S NURSERY
GROUNDS AT EPSOM.

FORGET thee! no—who can forget that hue,
When gazing on the sky's ethereal blue?
No blooming rival that mine eyes have met
Could for an instant cause me to forget
The sweet sensation that my mind o'erspread,
When first I saw thee on that lowly bed!

MATERNAL FEARS.

My dear boy was sent from Kew into North Wales, while his father lay on his dying bed; the child himself being very unwell at the time.

MY dearest Boy! my little one!
    Though now so far away,
Thy Mother's heart is still with thee—
    It seeks thee night and day.

She thought thy tender years to guide,
    But each resource hath flown:
Thy dying father sighing kiss'd
    And bless'd his little son.

I trembling bore thee from his arms,
    And bitter tears we shed:
I thought my heart-strings would have broke,
    For ev'ry hope had fled!

But new alarms distracted me—
    Thy colour went and came:
And shivering fits, and sickness pale,
    Assail'd thy tender frame.

Yet we were doom'd e'en thus to part,
    For ere that dreadful morn
Thy place was taken in the mail,
    And from me thou wert borne.

I heard thee plaintively exclaim,
    "Could'st thou, dear mother, leave
"My father's side, and come with me,
    "Then, then I should not grieve.

"These aching pains I scarce could feel,
    "For should I not be press'd
"To that fond bosom which was wont
    "To be my place of rest?"

A piercing anguish fill'd my soul;
    'T was hard indeed to part:
But Providence protected thee,
    And eas'd my troubled heart.

A Widow shortly I became—
    Sad, sorrowing, and lone;
Those forms so lov'd, so dear to me,
    All absent, ev'ry one!

But thou so very far wast sent,
    So many, many miles!
Alas! and shall I e'er again
    Behold thy artless smiles?

If we should ever meet again,
    My heart will thrill with joy:
If not,—O God, protect my child,
    My dear, my orphan boy!

AN EVENING MEDITATION.

    LOVELY evening, mild and still,
    With tranquil joys my bosom fill;
    Let no vain cares disturb my breast,
    While all around me sink to rest!
    Alone, by Contemplation led,
    Through this sweet field I love to tread.
    Above, below, through boundless space,
    The God of Nature here I trace:
    Yes—an Almighty guard I find
    O'er ev'ry thing of ev'ry kind!
    The sun is set, but in the west
    In splendour still the clouds are drest
    With fancied rocks, and mountains bold,
    And azure vales, and seas of gold
    Now fainter glows the magic scene,
    Grey mists arise and intervene,
    And gloomy vapours float between.
    But soon the silver moon will rise,
    And beam upon my raptur'd eyes;

    Great God! thy never-failing spring
    Of love, and wondrous works I'll sing!
    When gloom and darkness round me reign,
    Thou wilt my feeble mind sustain;
    Thine arm shall guard from ev'ry ill,
At eve's soft hour then let me seek thee still!

THE FARM.

I cross'd the fields the other morn,
Before the dew-drop left the thorn
And feeling weary, on a stile
I sat me down to rest awhile.
The air was clear, the hedge was sweet,
And daisies grew around my feet;
While in the brook that glided by,
The spotted trout were bounding high.
With pure delight did I behold
The splendid sun as burnish'd gold,
Slow rising from a distant clime
In dazzling radiance sublime.
Shortly gay sounds attract my ear,
And tell me there are children near:
Pleas'd with their mirth, I list'ning sat,
And unsuspected heard their chat.
Approaching near, I peep'd unseen,
And saw them sporting on the green;
And on some future day may tell
Why I lov'd them all so well.

The rough-cast cottage stands between
Trees cloth'd in every shade of green,
Whose sheltering arms shall firmly meet
Winter's rude storms and summer's heat.
A garden to the front we find,
For ornament and use combin'd:
Many a lovely bud was there,
Tended and reared with fostering care;
The clustering lilacs breath'd perfume,
And near them gold laburnums bloom,
Whose pendant blossoms nodding bow
Their graceful heads to shrubs below;
A chestnut, pear, and sycamore,
Throw their wide branches round the door;
While in the small verandah twine
The crocus, rose, and eglantine.
Adjoining is an orchard fair,
In spring its fragrance fills the air:
And store of apples, pears, and plums,
It yields when mellow autumn comes.

Next, to the farm-yard I proceed,
Where cattle low, and poultry feed;
Of its rude inmates I would tell,
For much was there that pleas'd me well;
Geese, ducks, and hens with hungry brood,
And cows in ruminating mood,
Waiting the well-scower'd pail to fill,
At well-known call of laughing Will.
Behind the house were piles of wood,
Along the wall bright milk-pans stood;
At dairy door the churn I found,
And saw them work it slowly round.
The noisy pump was standing by,
Which Ann the maid began to ply,
And from its hoarse and chilly throat
The cooling stream with vigour brought.
A cow-house and the barn were near;
A small thatched shed was in the rear;
And through the gate, not far beyond,
There flow'd a bubbling, useful pond.
Pigeons hopp'd by me quite at ease,
And Fan came fawning round my knees.
These all gave spirit to the view,
And as I saw it, so may you!
Ten verdant fields surround the whole,
Where, full of glee, the children stroll.

The Tenant of this sweet abode,
Bow'd down with grief's oppressive load,
Retir'd in search of that repose
Which it was thought might heal his woes:
And tranquil peace his cottage yields,
But high his rent, and small his fields,
And industry and patient care
Must both combine to keep him there.

Now I propose, without delay,
To spend a most delightful day.
The Farm is fifteen miles from town,
A two hours' drive will take us down.
Beneath the drooping ash I see,
There will be room to get our tea;
Or, if you please, the urn may smoke
Under the foliage of the oak.

TO ERNEST S——.

DEAR ERNEST, you ask me to write,
    But alas! I am not in the mood;
Yet something I fain would indite—
    To my young friends I would not be rude.

Still, that I can write to amuse,
    Is more than I'll venture to say;
For so fickle and coy is my muse,
    When I court her she often says nay.

Thou saidst, let it be the new year—
    But I felt it had no charm for me;
Its approach I had met with a tear,
    Yet hope it brought pleasure to thee.

And may each coming season bring joy,
    And fill with delight thy young mind;
May no griefs thy bright visions destroy,
    But Fortune and Friendship prove kind.

Deeply gifted by Nature thou art,
    With talent which few have possess'd;
And long may thy Parent's fond heart
    By thy virtue and merit be blest.

In the fair field of science proceed,
    And add laurels to those thou hast won;
And then I will love thee indeed,
    And my Friend shall rejoice in her son.

LINES,
SENT TO A LITTLE FRIEND WITH A BASKET
OF FLOWER-ROOTS.

DEAR WILLIAM, we send you some roots—but the flow'rs
Are wither'd and faded, for lack of warm show'rs;
Yet grieve not, dear boy, that their beauties are fled,
For when summer returns, 't will bring others instead.
If you plant, weed, and water them well, you will find
Ev'ry root will produce you sweet buds of its kind;
But if you neglect them, as some children do,
Who are thoughtless, and trifling, and indolent too,
Then expect no gay blossoms, the roots will decay,
And the young buds in spring will all wither away.
The culture of flow'rs is pleasing and healthy,
And often amuses the learned and wealthy;
It raises the mind to that God who has given
Trees, plants, fruits, and flow'rs, as blessings from Heaven.

Jane requests you'll accept of a pink and a rose;
Joseph sends you a lily, the fairest that grows;

If mamma should grow weary of reading this letter,
Pray remind her, dear William, the next may be better.
Remember me kindly to one, two, and three,
I shall leave you to guess who those persons may be.
Your politeness, dear William, I've not fail'd to mention,
And send you these plants for your friendly attention.
All your young friends in love and good wishes unite,—
I have worn out my pen, and must bid you good night;
For my eyes are gone dim, and my candle burns blue,
It is time to have done—so, dear William, adieu!

A TALE,
WRITTEN FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF MY
CHILDREN.

A charming walk is this! through all these fields
Nature with lavish hand her bounty yields.
Trip on, my dears, ere evening shades prevail,
For mists already mingle hill and dale,
Those berries will your dress and fingers stain,
Then let them for your favourite birds remain:
Beside the hedge-rows we'll no longer roam,
But keep the path, and let us hasten home.

Hark! Rattler barks—his friends are somewhat late,
See how to welcome us he leaps the gate!
Surely he claims our kindness and regard,
So faithfully he guards both house and yard.
Through the small garden let us slowly tread,
Where evening dews a rich perfume have spread;
Then to our much-lov'd cottage we'll retire,
And seek amusement round its cheerful fire.

What comforts doth this little room afford!
The chairs and table set—while on the board

The table clear'd, if memory does not fail,
Among my papers we shall find a tale,
A simple one—and all the merit due
To such a trifle is, that it is true.
Jane, dear, the work-box get, that you and I,
While Cheveley reads, our needles may apply.
George must sit still, for if one word is said,
He (though against his will) must go to bed.

VERSES,
SENT IN MY DAUGHTER'S TRUNK, ON HER
DEPARTURE INTO STAFFORDSHIRE.

ACCEPT, dear girl, a mother's blessing,
    All that's left her to bestow:
To part with thee was most distressing,
    Yet 't was best it should be so.

I shall miss my child's attention,
    Now deep affliction fills my breast;
But selfish griefs I ne'er will mention,
    If I find that thou art blest.

Blest with health, and friends to guide thee
    In the path that leads to heaven;
Such a hope must soon decide me—
    For my comfort it was given.

Thy Aunt, I trust, will oft remind thee
    That the world and all it gives
Must ere long be left behind thee,
    Though thy spirit ever lives.

Yes—thy soul must live for ever—
    Live in bliss or endless pain!
Think, O think of this, and never
    Let thy Saviour die in vain!

Let not love of dress or pleasure
    Fill thy head, or taint thy heart:
Would'st thou be my greatest treasure,
    Strive to act a wiser part.

Study Nature's ample pages,
    Wondrous works are there display'd,
Mighty works, which have for ages
    Scorn'd a mortal's feeble aid.

Be contented in thy station,
    This alone is happiness;
Pursue with zeal each avocation,
    And doubt not thou wilt find success.

Ask a blessing night and morning,
    Close the day with praise and prayer:
Piety thy mind adorning,
    Folly dares not enter there.

To accidents, and snares, and danger,
    Poverty, and ev'ry ill,
God grant thy bosom be a stranger;
    And may it be his gracious will

To shed his choicest gifts around thee,
    And to hear thy mother's pray'r;
Then sin and death will ne'er confound thee,
    But faith and hope, and peace appear.

Adieu, my child! in grief we parted,
    But a Mother thou wilt find
In her whose love has oft imparted
    Solace to my care-worn mind.

ADDRESS TO THE LADIES OF KEW.

Dear Ladies accept—pray do not reject
A tribute of gratitude, long ago due!
But how can I conceal, or express what I feel,
For favours receiv'd from the Ladies of Kew?

Though a stranger I came, and on none had a claim,
Good friends I have found, and they have not been few;
Acts of kindness abound from my neighbours around,
And grateful I feel to the Dwellers at Kew.

It griev'd me, I own, but my hopes had all flown,
And my mind was made up to bid you adieu;
Till kind Friends I revere, said, O pray persevere,
We trust there's a hope of remaining at Kew.

Then arrangements were made for a change in my trade,
And my small stock of goods is now open to view;
Come, Ladies, come buy—I entreat you to try,
For I feel my success depends chiefly on you!

Some Gents. I have seen, who have purchasers been
From benevolent motives—indeed it is true—
And I hope still to find others equally kind,
For I fain would remain in the village of Kew.

Begging ne'er was my forte, yet I crave your support—
For your favours in future most humbly I sue:
Let it not be in vain that I sigh to obtain
The esteem and good-will of the dwellers at Kew!