(Born 1835

Adelaide Anne Procter. Died 1864

DAUGHTER of "Barry Cornwall," and author of two volumes of poems entitled "Lyrics and Legends." She died in February 1864.

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead,

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas,

They wait in sunny ease

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern home once more.

Why must the flowers die?

Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays

These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth!

O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky

That soon-for spring is nigh

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night.

What sound can break the silence of dispair?

O doubting heart!

The sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,

And angels' silver voices stir the air,

Miscellaneous.

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

THERE is a tongue in every leaf,

A voice in every rill—

A voice that speaketh everywhere,

In flood and fire, through earth and air!
A tongue that's never still!

'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused
Through everything we see,

That with our spirits communeth

Of things mysterious—life and death,
Time and eternity!

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud;
I hear Him in the mighty roar
That rusheth through the forest hoar
When winds are raging loud.

I feel Him in the silent dews,
By grateful earth betrayed;

I feel Him in the gentle showers,

The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,
The sunshine, and the shade.

I see Him, hear Him, everywhere,
In all things-darkness, light,
Silence, and sound; but, most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall
In the still hour of night.

THE LOST LITTLE ONE.

WE miss her footfall on the floor,
Amidst the nursery din,

Her tip-tap at our bed-room door,
Her bright face peeping in.

And when to Heaven's high court above

Ascends our social prayer,

Though there are voices that we love,

One sweet voice is not there.

And dreary seem the hours, and lone,
That drag themselves along,
Now from our board her smile is gone,
And from our hearth her song.

We miss that farewell laugh of hers,
With its light joyous sound,
And the kiss between the balusters,
When good-night time comes round.

And empty is her little bed,

And on her pillow there

Must never rest that cherub head,
With its soft silken hair

But often as we wake and weep,
Our midnight thoughts will roam,
To visit her cold dreamless sleep,
In her last narrow home.

Then, then it is Faith's tear-dimm❜d eyes
See through ethereal space,

Amidst the angel-crowded skies,

That dear, that well-known face.

With beckoning hand she seems to say.

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Though all her sufferings o'er,

Your little one is borne away,

To this celestial shore.

"Doubt not she longs to welcome you
To her glad, bright abode,
There happy endless ages through,

To live with her and God."

THE DEWDROP AND THE STREAM.

THE brakes with golden flowers were crown'd,

And melody was heard around

When, near the scene, a dewdrop shed

Its lustre on a violet's head,

And trembling to the breeze it hung!

The streamlet as it rolled along,
The beauty of the morn confess'd,

And thus the sparkling pearl address'd:

"Sure, little drop, rejoice we may,
For all is beautiful and gay;
Creation wears her emerald dress,
And smiles in all her loveliness.
And with delight and pride I see
That little flower bedewed by thee-
Thy lustre with a gem might vie,
While trembling in its purple eye."

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Ay, you may well rejoice, 'tis true,"
Replied the radiant drop of dew;
"You will, no doubt, as on you move,
To flocks and herds a blessing prove.
But when the sun ascends on high,
Its beam will draw me towards the sky;
And I must own my little power—

I've but refresh'd a humble flower."

"Hold!" cried the stream, "nor thus repineFor well 'tis known a Power divine, Subservient to His will supreme,

Has made the dewdrop and the stream.
Though small thou art (I that allow),
No mark of Heaven's contempt art thou--
Thou hast refresh'd a humble flower,
And done according to thy power."

All things that are, both great and small,
One glorious Author form'd them all;
This thought may all repinings quell:
What serves His purpose, serves IIim well

SUMMER LONGINGS.

AH! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May-
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthoin brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting.
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May-

Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belonging
To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May-

Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers, that dead or dying,

All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May-
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;

Where in laughing and in sobbing,

Glide the streams away.

Ah my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May.

Spring goes by with wasted warnings-
Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings--

Summer comes, yet dark aud dreary
Life still ebbs away;

Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

TO EVA.

On fair and stately maid, whose eye
Was kindled in the upper sky!

At the same torch that lighted mine,

For so I must interpret still

Thy sweet dominion o'er my will
A sympathy divine.