TO HELEN,

WITH A SMALL CANDLESTICK-A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

IF, wandering in a wizard's car

Through yon blue ether, I were able

To fashion of a little star

A taper for my Helen's table,—

"What then?" she asks me with a laugh;—

Why then, with all Heaven's lustre glowing, It would not gild her path with half

The light her love o'er mine is throwing!

(FEBRUARY 12, 1838.)

TO HELEN,

WITH SOUTHEY'S POEMS.

A HAPPY and a holy day

Is this alike to soul and sight;
With cheerful love and joyful lay
Would I, dear Helen, greet its light.

But vain the purpose-very vain!
I cannot play the minstrel's part,
When recent care and present pain
Untune the lyre, unnerve the heart.

Yet prize these tomes of golden rhyme;
And let them tell you, in far years,
When faint the record traced by Time
Of brightest smiles or saddest tears,

As sunward rose the Persian's prayer,

Though clouds might dim the votary's view,
So still, through doubt and grief and care,
My spirit, Helen, turned to you.

(JULY 7, 1838.)

19*

1

THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD.

I.

He knows that the paleness still grows on his cheek,
He feels that the fever still burns on his brow,
And what in his thought, in his dream, does he seek
Far, far o'er the ocean that circles him now?

'Tis the home of his Childhood! the first and the

best! why have

you hurried him over the wave, That the hand of the stranger may tend on his rest, That the foot of the stranger may tread on his grave?

II.

Here the sun may be brighter, the heaven more blue, But, oh! to his eyes they are joyless and dim: Here the flowers may be richer of perfume and hue,-

They are not so fair nor so fragrant to him:

'Tis the Home of his Childhood! Oh, bear him again To the play-haunted lawn, to the love-lighted

room,

That his mother may watch by his pillow of pain, That his father may whisper a prayer o'er his tomb!

(ST. LEONARD'S-ON-SEA,

December 22, 1838.)

TO HELEN,

WITH A DIARY, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

Ir daily to these tablets fair

My Helen shall intrust a part

Of every thought, dream, wish, and prayer, Born from her head or from her heart,

Well may I say each little page

More precious records soon will grace, Than ever yet did bard or sage

From store of truth or fable trace.

Affection--friendship here will glow,

The daughter's and the mother's love,

And charity to man below,

And piety to God above.

Such annals, artless though they be,
Of all that is most pure and bright-

Oh, blessed are the eyes that see!

More blessed are the hands that write!

(FEBRUARY 12, 1839.)

TO HELEN.

DEAREST, I did not dream, four years ago,
When through your veil I saw your bright tear

shine,

Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,

And felt your soft hand tremble into mine, That in so brief-so very brief a space,

He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,

The darker, sadder duties of the wife,—

Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care
For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested;
The daily tendance on the fractious chair,
The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.

Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise,

Though with more gladsome beams it might have

shone:

Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim

eyes,

In sickness, as in health,-bless you, My Own!

(SUDBURY, July 7, 1839.)

END OF VOL. I.