For it speaks of a fond, but deep regret

O'er feelings' dull decay;

As if those who lov'd could e'er forget

The friends that are far away!

And ne'er, oh ne'er, could I bear to distress thee

By breathing so harsh a thought;

Nor send the loveliest flower, my Jessie,

To bid thee forget me not.

But I send you this bright and beautiful blossom

Of heaven's most summer hue,

To speak of a thought that inhabits my bosom,

A prayer for a blessing on you.

Thy silken sail, on the world's wide sea,
To the changeful wind is given;

And blest be the flower that asks for thee

The breath and the light of heaven.

Soft be the breeze that wanders o'er thee,

Soft be the wavelet curled,

Till the far blue hills are capped with glory,

The light of another world.

Beautiful hills!-when all is past

The spirit's fond endeavour

Thence be thy welcome sung at last,
And there be thy home for ever!

Speed on; speed well; the fickle flower
Hath lost its charm to me;

I hoped it true-perchance its power

May prove more kind to thee.

TO AN EARLY FRIEND,

ON

HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

66

Long years,

Long though not very many, since have done

Their work on both :-some suffering and some tears

Have left us nearly where we had begun ;

Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run;

We have had our reward."

CHILDE HAROLD.-CANTO IV.

THEY are gone-those years of the painless mind,

The happy and the free!

They are gone with the breath of the summer wind,

With the foam of the summer sea!

Yet scarce may'st thou deem how much I owe

To childhood and to thee,

For many a dream severest woe

Can never wring from me.

They were dreams of childhood's azure glance,

Of soft hair's sunny ray;

But why should I speak of what long, perchance, Hath passed from thee away?

Oh, joy was then like the deathless blue

Hesperia's soft sky wears;

And hope was a rainbow, whose brilliant hue

Ne'er melted into tears.

Or if it did, from that light shower

So fresh each blossom grew,

'Twas hard to quarrel with a flower

All jewelled with such dew.

They are gone,-those young and delicate buds!
Or they live in remembrance only,
Which ofttimes over their beauty broods,

When the heart feels sad and lonely!

And summer is coming, a tint more warm

O'er earth and heaven to pour;

But summer's the time of the thunder storm,

The nurse of the passion flower.

Thou canst not trust to her joyous sky,

Or the smile of her sea's repose;

For that smile oft sparkles o'er misery,
Which none but the sufferer knows.

But enough of regret :-there is God above ;-
There is suffering man below;

And the soul hath a nobler task to prove

Than selfish bliss or woe.

She is taught from each gem that glows on high,

Or spangles the dewy sod,

From each flower of the earth and each star of the sky,

To know and to worship God.