Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold,
Shrinking from the water cold,
Whose virtues, rightly understood,

Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.

Strange words-the World, the Flesh, the Devil

Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil?
But we must silently adore

Mysterious truths, and not explore.
Enough for him, in after-times,

When he shall read these artless rhymes,
If, looking back upon this day,
With quiet conscience he can say,
"I have in part redeemed the pledge
Of my Baptismal privilege;

And more and more will strive to flee

All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."

ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.

I SAW where in the shroud did lurk

A curious frame of Nature's work.
A floweret crushed in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
Was in a cradle-coffin lying;

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying;
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
For darker closets of the tomb!

She did but ope an eye, and put

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut

For the long dark: ne'er more to see

Through glasses of mortality.

Riddle of destiny, who can show

What thy short visit meant, or know

What thy errand here below?

Shall we say that Nature blind

Checked her hand and changed her mind,

Just when she had exactly wrought

A finished pattern without fault?

Could she flag, or could she tire,

Or lacked she the Promethean fire

(With her nine moons' long workings sickened)
That should thy little limbs have quickened?

Limbs so firm, they seemed to assure

Life of health, and days mature :

Woman's self in miniature!
Limbs so fair they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
That babe or mother; one must die ;
So in mercy left the stock,

And cut the branch; to save the shock
Of young years widowed; and the pain,
When single state comes back again
To the lone man who, 'reft of wife,
Thenceforwards drags a maimèd life?
The economy of Heaven is dark;
And wisest clerks have missed the mark,
Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,
More brief than fly ephemeral,

That has his day; while shrivelled crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years.
Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells and baby clothes;
Coral redder than those lips,

Which pale death did late eclipse;

Music framed for infant's glee,

Whistle never tuned for thee;

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
Loving hearts were they which gave them.
Let not one be missing; nurse,

See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain by doom perverse.

Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave;
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
A more harmless vanity?

TO BERNARD BARTON.

WHEN last you left your Woodbridge pretty
To stare at sights and see the City,

If I your meaning understood,

You wished a picture, cheap, but good;
The colouring? decent; clear, not muddy;
To suit a Poet's quiet study,

Where books and prints for delectation
Hang, rather than vain ostentation.
The subject? what I pleased, if comely;
But something scriptural and homely :

A sober piece, not gay or wanton,
For winter firesides to descant on,
The theme so scrupulously handled,
A Quaker might look on unscandalled;
Such as might satisfy Ann Knight,
And Classic Mitford just not fright.
Just such a one I've found and send it ;
If liked, I give—if not, but lend it.
The moral? nothing can be sounder.
The fable? 'tis its own expounder-
A Mother teaching to her Chit
Some good book, and explaining it.
He, silly urchin, tired of lesson,
His learning lays no mighty stress on,
But seems to hear not what he hears;
Thrusting his fingers in his ears.
Like Obstinate, that perverse funny one,
In honest parable of Bunyan.

His working Sister, more sedate,
Listens; but in a kind of state,
The painter meant for steadiness,
But has a tinge of sullenness;

And, at first sight, she seems to brook
As ill her needle as he his book.
This is the picture. For the frame-
'Tis not ill-suited to the same;
Oak-carved, not gilt, for fear of falling;
Old-fashioned; plain, yet not appalling;
And sober, as the owner's calling.

From her stock of Scriptural knowledge,
Bible-taught without a college,
Which by reading she could gather,
Teaches him to say OUR FATHER
To the common Parent, who
Colour not respects, nor hue.
White and black in Him have part,
Who looks not to the skin, but heart.

SHE IS GOING.

FOR their elder's sister's hair
Martha does a wreath prepare
Of bridal rose, ornate and gay:
To-morrow is the wedding day:
She is going.

Mary, youngest of the three,
Laughing ialer, full of glee,

Arm in arm does fondly chain her,
Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her-
But she's going.

Vex not, maidens, nor regret

Thus to part with Margaret.

Charms like yours can never stay

Long within doors; and one day
You'll be going.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND

ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

CROWN me a cheerful goblet, while I pray

A blessing on thy years, young Isola;

Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown
To me thy girlish times, a woman grown

Beneath my heedless eyes! In vain I rack

My fancy to believe the almanack,

That speaks thee twenty-one. Thou shouldst have still

Remained a child, and at thy sovereign will

Gambolled about our house, as in times past.

Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,

Hastening to leave thy friends-for which intent,
Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment.
After some thirty years, spent in such bliss

As this earth can afford, where still we miss

Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old
As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold.
O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say,
Looking upon thee reverend in decay,

"This dame, for length of days and virtues rare,
With her respected grandsire may compare."
Grandchild of that respected Isola,

Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day
Kind looks of parents, to congratulate

Their pride grown up to woman's grave estate.
But they have died, and left thee, to advance

Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance

The friends which Nature grudged. And thou wilt find

Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind

To thee and thy deservings. That last strain

Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again

Another cheerful goblet, while I say

66 Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola.”

TO THE SAME.

EXTERNAL gifts of fortune or of face,
Maiden, in truth, thou hast not much to show;
Much fairer damsels have I known and know,
And richer may be found in every place.
In thy mind seek thy beauty and thy wealth.
Sincereness lodgeth there, the soul's best health.
O guard that treasure above gold or pearl,
Laid up secure from moths and worldly stealth-
And take my benison, plain-hearted girl.

TO JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES,
ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS."

(London Magazine, 1820.)

TWELVE years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then
Esteemèd you a perfect specimen

Of those fine spirits warm-souled Ireland sends,

To teach us colder English how a friend's

Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain,

Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain ;

But nothing further had the gift to espy.

Sudden you reappear. With wonder I