'Tis the Home of his Childhood! the first and the best! Oh, 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, 1888.) TO HELEN, WITH A DIARY, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT. IF 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, 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, Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low, 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 bestea 1; 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. When I recall the days of hope and fear In which I first dared call my Helen mine, Or the sweet hour when first upon my ear Broke the shrill cry of little Adeline, The memory of your friendship, Friend sincere, Among such memories grateful I entwine. (OCTOBER 15, 1836.) SONNET TO B. J. M. P. A SAD return, my Brother, thine must be How shall we bid the mourner not complain, Not murmur, not despond?-ah me, most vain Is sympathy, how soft soe'er the key, And argument, how grave soe'er the tone! In our still chambers, on our bended knees, Pray we for better help! There is but One Who shall from sorrow, as from sin, release: God send thee peace, my Brother! God along Guideth the fountains of eternal peace. (OCTOBER 19, 1886.) TO HELEN, WITH CRABBE'S POEMS-A BIRTHDAY PRESENT. GIVE Crabbe, dear Helen, on your shelf, The garb it chance or choose to wear. Nor deem, dear Helen, unallied |