92

TO A SISTER.

But be its zest those charms that have their flow Fresh from the source of feeling and of thought; And full of all that pure and vivid glow Which speaks them born above, though spent on earth below.

BARTON.

TO A SISTER.

My sister, companion and friend,
The guide of my devious way,
May a song of affection attend

The return of this festival day!
We are friends by the earliest choice-
Our union in childhood began-
And still we can weep, or rejoice,
In unison only, my Ann.

While many in solitude walk,

Together we travel along;

Or hang like twin buds on a stalk,

(We may call ourselves flowers in song.)

The showers that kindly descend,

Have nourished us both as they passed;

And together we shiver and bend,

Assailed by the winterly blast.

TO A SISTER.

But let every sigh be repressed,

Since mutual our pleasures must be :

The ivy that clings to its breast

Is reckoned a part of the tree.

And oh! may we never divide,

Till closed is this turbulent day. Should I lose you, my sister and guide,

How dreary the rest of the way!

JANE TAYLOR.

93

94

DEAR то MEMORY.

OH! DEAR TO MEMORY ARE
THOSE HOURS.

OH! dear to memory are those hours
When every pathway led to flowers;
When sticks of peppermint possessed
A sceptre's power o'er the breast,
And heaven was round us while we fed
On rich ambrosial gingerbread.

I bless the days of infancy,

When, stealing from a mother's eye,
Elysian happiness was found

On that celestial field, the ground.

Then shone the meteor days of youth,
Eclipsing quite the lamp of truth;

And precious, bright those sunbeams were
That dried all tears, dispersed all care;
That shed a stream of golden joy,

Without one atom of alloy.

Oh! ne'er in mercy strive to chase

Such dazzling phantoms from their place;

However trifling, mean, or wild,

The deeds may seem of youth or child,
While they still leave untarnished soul,
The iron rod of stern control

Should be but gentle in its sway,

Nor rend the magic veil away.

DEAR то MEMORY.

I doubt if it be kind or wise

To quench the light in opening eyes,
By preaching fallacy or woe

As all that we can meet below.

I ne'er respect the ready tongue
That augurs sorrow to the young;
That aptly plays a sybil's part,
To promise night-shade to the heart.
Let them exult! their laugh and song
Are rarely known to last too long.
Why should we strive, with cynic frown,

To knock their fairy castles down?
We know that much of pain and strife
Must be the common lot of life:
We know the world is dark and rough,
But time betrays that soon enough!

ELIZA COOK.

95

96

A BALLAD.

A BALLAD.

THOU art plucking spring-roses, Genie,
And a little red rose art thou;
Thou hast unfolded to-day, Genie,
Another bright leaf, I trow;

But the roses will live and die, Genie,
Many and many a time,

Ere thou hast unfolded quite, Genie-
Grown into maiden prime.

Thou art looking now at the birds, Genie,
But oh! do not wish their wing,
That would only tempt the fowler, Genie,
Stay thou on earth and sing;
Stay in the nursing-nest, Genie,

Be not soon thence beguiled,

Thou wilt ne'er find a second, Genie;

Never be twice a child.

Thou art building towers of pebbles, Genie—
Pile them up brave and high;

And leave them to follow a bee, Genie,
As he wandereth singing by;

But if thy towers fall down, Genie,

And if the brown bee is lost,

Never weep-for thou must learn, Genie,

That soon life's schemes are crost.