LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER,

ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.

My heart is with you, Bulwer! and portrays
The blessings of your first paternal days;
To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith,
To taste one's own and love-born infant's'
breath.

I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss.
I've felt that to a father's heart that kiss,
As o'er its little lips you smile and cling,
Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring.

Such are the joys, ill mock'd in ribald song,
In thought, ev'n fresh'ning life our life-time long,
That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn
bloom:

Without them we are weeds upon a tomb.

Joy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine Propitious stars saw truth and passion twine! Joy be to her who in your rising name

Feels love's bower brighten'd by the beams of fame!

I lack'd a father's claim to her-but knew
Regard for her young years so pure and true,
That, when she at the altar stood your bride,
A sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride

SONG.

WHEN Love came first to Earth, the Spring
Spread rose-buds to receive him,

And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing
To heaven, if she should leave him.

But Spring, departing, saw his faith
Pledg'd to the next new-comer-
He revell'd in the warmer breath
And richer bowers of Summer.

Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights
An archer for her lover,

And even in Winter's dark, cold nights
A charm he could discover.

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,
For this time were his reasons-
In short, young Love's a gallant boy,
That likes all times and seasons.

DIRGE OF WALLACE.

THEY lighted a taper at the dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;

But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,

Her eye was all sleepless and dim!

And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,

When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord; And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board, To tell of her warrior's doom!

"Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here!

For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep:-
The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die:
His valourous heart they have wounded deep:
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,
For Wallace of Elderslie!"

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin bell was rung,

That a trumpet of death on an English tower
Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
No weeping was there when his bosom bled-
And his heart was rent in twain!

Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear
Was true to that knight forlorn;

And the hosts of a thousand were scatter'd like deer,

At the blast of the hunter's horn;

When he strode on the wreck of each wellfought field

With the yellow-hair'd chiefs of his native

land;

For his lance was not shiver'd on helmet or

shield

And the sword that seem'd fit for Archangel to wield,

Was light in his terrible hand!

Yet bleeding and bound, though her Wallace wight

For his long-loved country die,

The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight
Than Wallace of Elderslie'

But the day of his glory shall never depart, His head unentomb'd shall with glory be balm'd,

From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall

start.

Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart,

A nobler was never embalm'd!

SONG.

My mind is my kingdom, but if thou wilt deign To sway there a queen without measure, Then come, o'er its wishes and homage to reign, And inake it an empire of pleasure.

Then of thoughts and emotions each mutinous crowd

That rebell'd at stern reason and duty, Returning shall yield all their loyalty proud To the halcyon dominion of Beauty.

SONG.

O CHERUB Content! at thy moss-cover'd shrine, I the gay hopes of my bosom resign,

1 part with ambition thy vot'ry to be,

And breathe not a sigh but to friendship and

thee!

But thy presence appears from my wishes to fly, Like the gold-colour'd clouds on the verge of the

sky;

No lustre that hangs on the green willow-tree Is so sweet as the smile of thy favour to me.

In the pulse of my heart I have nourish'd a care That forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share, The noon of my life slow departing I see,

But its years as they pass bring no tidings of thee.

O cherub Content! at thy moss-cover'd shrine,
I would offer my vows if Matilda were mine;
Could I call her my own, whom enraptur'd I see,
I would breathe not a sigh but to friendship and
thee.

THE FRIARS OF DIJON.

A TALE.

WHEN honest men confess'd their sins,
And paid the church genteely,
In Burgundy two Capuchins

Lived jovially and freely.

They march'd about from place to place,
With shrift and dispensation;
And mended broken consciences,
Soul-tinkers by vocation.

One friar was Father Boniface,
And he ne'er knew disquiet,

Save when condemn'd to saying grace

O'er mortifying diet.

The other was lean Dominick,

Whose slender form, and sallow,