A little child lay playing

Upon the smooth-shaved lawn; Seemed it the sun was saying— "Oh, youth, enjoy thy dawn."

Then moved a shadow slowly,

A shade new born with day, Until it wrapt him wholly,

The while in thoughtless play.

""Tis thus," said I, repining,
"Weak child and strongest man
When at their gladdest shining
Pass under Sorrow's ban."

Within the heart of laughter
A secret fear is bred,

And the darkness of hereafter
From present joy is shed.

Amidst these musings gloomy,
Despairing thus of life,

Calm, hopeful thoughts came to me;
Faith conquered in the strife.

With countless frank-eyed daisies
The shadow seemed thick laid,

Like little children's faces

The world's not made afraid.

They had not much of beauty,

But constant looks of praise,

And a calm and fixéd duty

Shone through their steadfast gaze.

So, God, my heart to freshen
And free me from my care,
Had taught me a great lesson
By little daisies fair.

Again 'twas sunny morning,

And sweet as sweet could be,
The birds, the dull earth scorning,
Sung from each branching tree.

AUTUMN ON THE HILL SIDE.

UPON the upland, slanting to the plain

(Gently as slants a bird with outstretched wings),
Dreaming, with half-closed lids, I listless lie.
The thistle-downs float slowly past; each seed,
Pendulous swaying from its parachute,

Skims lightly o'er the hindering blades of grass :
The purple heath-bells, swayed by gentle gusts,
Knock timidly against my brow and cheek:
Whilst ever, in the amber fields below,
The flashing sickle, by brown Labour urged,
Gleams crescent-wise through falling threads of corn.
Far off, along the tranquil landscape, creeps
The smoke's thin azure from the stubble fires.

All's gentle motion and continual calm.

Oh, that the scene's content we could drink in! With thirsty eyes and realizing brow

I gaze, and it is gone; just like some star,

That, in perusing, fades-to dreamy eyes.
The vividness returns. Westward I look.
The setting sun upon the hill's brim rests,
Shooting a golden weft along the ground.
In life-lines o'er the bosom of the steep
The sheep-tracks run, and ever from the sheep
Long shadows stream. Over the broken wall,
With bended knees, a ram leaps suddenly
And stares, tinkling at intervals the bell

Half muffled 'neath his woolly throat; full browed
Between his rib-carved horns, firmly he stands ;
And round him gather up the scattered flock,
Till like a cloud the whole drive swiftly past,
Seized with a panic fear. Upon the hills
And o'er the plain, still crowned, Summer sits;
But in the vale sad Autumn slowly steals.
How melancholy, in my homeward walk,
Between the avenue of limes, to see
The leaves fall undulating one by one,
And then upon the ground in eddies whirl!
There are no bees about, no busy drones
Curious within the painted chalices.

The sun-dial in the garden day by day
More idle seems. The pathway weedy grows;
And we do watch no more a favourite flower,
Counting the buds.

428

A WATER SKETCH.

Thorold. Here, love, towards this islet let us steer, Flush in this bay, thick paved with lily leaves, The clear white cups our keen keel swirling down; And, see! up the dumb water-beetles dart, Then dive again among the swaying stems Our boat glides over. Hark! how fresh the sound, As 'twixt the reeds we crash upon the bank : Firm footing here this tuft of rushes gives; One step, and those twin-daisied feet we land Upon the swarded green. See, darling! here, Among the weeds, the glist'ning pieces still, Of the Venetian glass I broke last spring, Toasting "The lady with the Greek-waved hair," Till the last bubble burst upon my lip. Here I remember on the ground I lay, Noting the silver satin's changeful flush, And the long feathers nodding courtesies, Beneath that murm'ring shade of sycamores, Where now the cloud of insects rise and fall; Then came a laugh, and then-your deep blue eyes And yellow hair, of leafy shade grown tired, Towards yon tree, came out into the sun; Down dropped the ruffles from your loving arm Upstrained to switch the chestnut's budding cones, Which scattered all around their little stars. "I wish I had the giraffe's neck," you said, "To snap that tantalizing upper bud!"

And then turned round, as if a friend were nigh,
To where I stood admiring. That curtsey proud!
Look, love, and see, from out the rustling reeds
The swan sail past. No Roman galley-beak
Back-curved disdained the water so-'twas thus
You drew up seeing me: 'twas all rare art—
Confess how much?

Millicent.

See my poor finger now,
How you have bruised it with my opal ring!
Well, then, what cared I for the chestnut buds?
They said Sir Owlet there was quizzing them,
And so I volunteered unearthing you,
Hid close among the waving screen of ferns;
'Tis still continual mirth-how suddenly

I froze that pert assured smile of yours.
I've often thought I should have lost you then,
Had not that glorious Lanner's Waltz struck up,
And swiftly into Pity's melting drops

All my hoar-frosted haughty pride dissolved.
Then your revenge!-Up sprang the gladdening
strings,

Beneath the harper's spirit-stirring hand;

And round you whirl'd me till my hair blew back,
And pants broke up my set-rehearsed speech:
I've scarce forgiven you for so cheating me
Into acquaintanceship.

Thorold.

Loop back your shawl,

Let thus your bonnet from the ribbons swing,
Just as, the music ceased, you wandered with me

Through the woods. I'd picture o'er again