We will call his anger play,
Deem his dart a feather,
When we meet him on our way
Hand in hand together.
WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF KEBLE'S " CHRISTIAN YEAR," A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.
My Helen, for its golden fraught
Of prayer and praise, of dream and thought,
Where Poesy finds fitting voice
For all who hope, fear, grieve, rejoice,
Long have I loved, and studied long,
The pious minstrel's varied song.
Whence is the volume dearer now?
There gleams a smile upon your brow,
Wherein, methinks, I read how well
You guess the reason, ere I tell,
Which makes to me the simple rhymes
More prized, more conned, a hundred times.
Ere vanished quite the dread and doubt
Affection ne'er was born without,
Found we not here a magic key
Opening thy secret soul to me?
Found we not here a mystic sign
Interpreting thy heart to mine?
What sympathies up-springing fast
Through all the future, all the past,
In tenderest links began to bind
Spirit to spirit, mind to mind,
As we, together wandering o'er
The little volume's precious store,
Mused, with alternate smile and tear,
On the high themes awakened here
Of fervent hope, of calm belief,
Of cheering joy, of chastening grief;
The trials borne, the sins forgiven,
The task on earth, the meed in heaven!
My Own! oh, surely from above
Was shed that confidence of love,
Which, in such happy moments nursed
When soul with soul had converse first,
Now through the snares and storms of life
Blesses the husband and the wife!
WHEN some grim sorceress, whose skill
Had bound a sprite to work her will,
In mirth or malice chose to ask
Of the faint slave the hardest task,—
She sent him forth to gather up
Great Ganges in an acorn-cup,
Or heaven's unnumbered stars to bring
In compass of a signet-ring.
Thus Helen bids her poet write
The thanks he owes this morning's light; And "Give me," so he hears her say,"Four verses, only four, to-day."
Dearest and best! she knows, if Wit
Could ever half Love's debt acquit,
Each of her tones and of her looks
Would have its four, not lines, but books.
(HOUSE OF COMMONS,
July 7, 1886.)
My pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks if I, to-morrow,
Could manage, just for half an hour,
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,
I might immortalize a few
Of all the myriad graces
Which Time, while yet they all are new, With newer still replaces.
I'd paint, my child, your deep-blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
I'd draw with most fastidious care
One eyebrow, then the other,
And that fair forehead, broad and fair,
The forehead of your mother.
I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek
Where health in sunshine dances; And oft the pouting lips, where speak A thousand voiceless fancies;
And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck, more sinooth and snowy
Than ever yet in schoolboy's song
Had Caroline or Chloe.
Nor less on those twin rounded arins
My new-found skill would linger,
Nor less upon the rosy charms
Of every tiny finger;
Nor slight the small feet, little one,
So prematurely clever
That, though they neither walk nor run, I think they'd jump forever.
But then your odd endearing ways-
What study e'er could catch them?
Your aimless gestures, endless plays-
What canvas e'er could match them?
Your lively leap of merriment,
Your murmur of petition,
Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.
Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,
For Art's most fine creations!-
Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,
To note your transformations,
No picture of your form or face,
Your waking or your sleeping,
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