I hardly dared think it was human, when
I first look'd in her yearning face;
For it shone as the heavens had open'd then,
And clad it with glory and grace!

But dearer its light of healing grew

In our dark and desolate day,

As the rainbow, when heaven hath no break of blue, Smileth the storm away.

Oh, her shape was the lithest loveliness

Just an armful of heaven to enfold!

But the form that bends flower-like in love's caress
With the victor's strength is soul'd!

In her worshipful presence transfigured I stand,
And the poor man's English home

She lights with the beauty of Greece the grand,
And the glory of regallest Rome.

GERALD MASSEY, 1828

MUTUAL CONFIDENCE.

Он, who the exquisite delight can tell,
The joys which mutual confidence imparts?
Or who can paint the charm unspeakable
Which links in tender bands two faithful hearts?
In vain assail'd by fortune's envious darts,
Their mitigated woes are sweetly shared,
And doubled joy reluctantly departs :

Let but the sympathising heart be spared,

What sorrow seems not light, what peril is not dared?

Oh, never may Suspicion's gloomy sky

Chill the sweet glow of fondly-trusting Love!
Nor ever may he feel the scowling eye
Of dark Distrust his confidence reprove!
In pleasing error may
I rather rove,

With blind reliance on the hand so dear,
Than let cold Prudence from my eyes remove
Those sweet delusions, where no doubt, nor fear,
Nor foul disloyalty, nor cruel change appear.

The noble mind is ever prone to trust;
Yet love with fond anxiety is join'd;

And timid tenderness is oft unjust;

The coldness which it dreads too prompt to find,
And rack with cruel pain the feeling mind.
Hence rose the gloom which oft o'er Psychè stole,
Lest he she loved, unmindful or unkind,
Should, careless, slight Affection's soft control,
Or she, long absent, lose her influence o'er his soul.
MRS MARY TIGHE, 1773-1810.

TO MY MOTHER.

O THOU whose care sustain'd my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;

To thee my lay is due, the simple song,

Which Nature gave me at life's opening day; To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.

Oh, say, amid this wilderness of life,

What bosom would have throbb'd like thine for me? Who would have smiled responsive? who in grief Would e'er have felt, and feeling, grieved like thee?

Who would have guarded with a falcon eye

Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear? Who would have mark'd my bosom bounding high, And clasp'd me to her heart with love's bright tear?

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fann'd, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly press'd my fever'd lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?

None but a mother-none but one like thee,

Whose bloom hath faded in the midnight watch; Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,

Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,

By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom— Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,

That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.

Oh, then, to thee, this rude and simple song,

Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.

LUCRETIA DAVIDSON, 1808-1825.

-American.

COMPASSION'S TEAR.

I.

WHAT is glory? what is fame?
That a shadow, this a name,
Restless mortals to deceive :

Are they renown'd, can they be great,
Who hurl their fellow-creatures' fate,

That mothers, children, wives may grieve?

Ask smiling honour to complain,
What is glory, what is fame;

Hark! the glad mandate strikes the listening ear: "The truest glory to the bosom dear

Is when the soul starts soft compassion's tear."

II.

What are riches, pomp, and power?
Gewgaws that endure their hour,
Wretched mortals to allure :

Can greatness reach the idly vain,
Indulging in the princely fane,
Deaf to the miseries of the poor?

Ask smiling reason to proclaim
What is glory, what is fame;

Hark! the sweet mandate strikes the listening ear:
"The truest glory to the bosom dear
Is when the soul starts soft compassion's tear."

CHARLES DIBDIN, 1745-1814.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER.

LIKE the remembrance of a dream

Recall'd imperfectly to thought,

Thy form, thy features, sometimes seem
To musing meditation brought.