VI. — THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLEST .

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallow'd from that hour
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might,
The conscious glory of the Saviour's love!
And honor'd be all childhood, for the sake

" Strew me with blossoms when I die,
Nor lay me 'neath the earth below;
Beyond those walls, there let me lie,
Where oftentimes we used to go.
There lay me to the wind and rain;
Dying for you, I feel no pain:
There lay me to the sun above;
Dying for you, I die of love. "

Blest hour of Peace, of Poetry, and Love!
Spell-breathing season--care-subduing time!
Dim emanation of a world above,
Hallowed and still, soft, soothing, and sublime!
My heaven-aspiring spirit seems to climb
Nearer to God, whose all-protecting wing
Shadows the universe; my feelings chime
In unison with every holy thing,
That memory can give, or meditation bring!

The voice of nature is a voice of power,
More eloquent than mortal lips can make;
And even now in this most solemn hour,
She bids my noblest sympathies awake.

A LONE upon the housetops to the North
I turn and watch the lightnings in the sky —
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.

Below my feet the still bazar is laid —
Far, far below the weary camels lie —
The camels and the captives of thy raid.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

My father's wife is old and harsh with years,
And drudge of all my father's house am I —
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

A Fisher-lad (no higher dares he look)
Myrtil, sat down by silver Medwayes shore:
His dangling nets (hung on the trembling oare)
Had leave to play, so had his idle hook,
While madding windes the madder Ocean shook.
Of Chamus had he learnt to pipe, and sing,
And frame low ditties to his humble string.

There as his boat late in the river stray'd,
A friendly fisher brought the boy to view
Coelia the fair, whose lovely beauties drew
His heart from him into that heav'nly maid:
There all his wandring thoughts, there now they staid.

Fair is my Love, for April in her face;
Her lovely breasts September claims his part;
And lordly J u ly in her eyes takes place;
But cold December dwelleth in her heart:
Blest be the months that sets my thoughts on fire!
Accurst that month that hind'reth my desire!

Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkles both her eyes;
As air perfumed with amber is her breath;
Like swelling waves her lovely teats do rise;
As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death:
Ay me, poor man, that on the earth do live,
When unkind earth death and despair doth give!

Phillis kept sheep along the western plains,
And Coridon did feed his flocks hard by:
This shepherd was the flower of all the swains,
That traced the downs of fruitful Thessaly,
And Phillis, that did far her flocks surpass
In silver hue, was thought a bonny lass.

A bonny lass, quaint in her country 'tire,
Was lovely Phillis, Coridon swore so;
Her locks, her looks, did set the swain on fire.
He left his lambs, and he began to woo,
He looked, he sithed, he courted with a kiss:
No better could the silly swad than this.

Lovely Maya, Hermes' mother,
Of fair Flora much befriended,
To whom this sweet month is commended,
This month more sweet than any other,
By thy sweet sovereignty defended.

Daisies, cowslips, and primroses,
Fragrant violets, and sweet mynthe,
Matched with purple hyacinth:
Of these, each where, nymphs make trim posies,
Praising their mother Berycinth.

Behold, a herd of jolly swains
Go flocking up and down the mead.
A troop of lovely nymphs do tread,
And dearnly dancing on yon plains,

Ah were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair;
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land,
Under wide heavens, but yet [there is] not such.
So as she shows, so seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
Sovereign of beauty like the spray she grows,
Compass'd she is with thorns and canker's flower;

Twenty years on the road of love
but the road is still unmapped.
Sometimes I was the victor.
More often the vanquished.
Twenty years, O book of love
and still on the first page.