VERSES

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S BOOK, GIVEN BY
HER GODSON, AGED FOUR.

TO

My little Freddy, when you look
Into this nice new story-book

Which is my Christmas present,
You'll find it full of verse and prose,
And pictures too, which I suppose

Will make them both more pleasant.

Stories are here of girls and boys,
Of all their tasks, and all their toys,

Their sorrows and their pleasures;
Stories of cuckoos, dogs, and bees,
Of fragrant flowers and beauteous trees,
In short, a hoard of treasures.

When you have spelled the volume through,
One tale will yet remain for you,—

(I hope you'll read it clearly;)
"Tis of a Godmamma, who proves
By such slight token, that she loves
Her God-child very dearly.

DECEMBER 25, 1837.

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.

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!
O 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! O 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 entrust 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.