TO CAROLINE BOWLES. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. I. I know thee only in thy page Of simplest truth, by taste refined ;But though I ne'er have seen thy face, Not seldom, do I love to trace The features of thy mind! II. Pure, as the calm, sequestered stream, That winds its way through flowers and fern; Now gliding here, now wandering there, Diffusing coolness every where, Refreshing all in turn : III. Thus do thy strains, serene and sweet, IV. What though I ne'er have clasped thy hand, I see thee oft in Fancy's glass; "Edwin" and "Ranger " in thy train, Pacing across the village plain, The "Broken Bridge" to pass!" V. And mark thy devious footsteps threading To make the living wise! Or by the " VI. open casement sitting," With "autumn's latest flowers" before thee; Drinking thy" Birdie's" merry notes, Or tracking the sun as he proudly floats VII. And when grey Twilight weaves her web, * Allusions to Miss Bowles's works. M VIII. Some low, sweet dirge, of softest power IX. Oh! much I love to steal away From gairish strains, that mock my heart; To steep my soul in lays like thine, And pause o'er each wildly-witching line, Till my tears, unbidden, start! X. For thou hast ever been to me A gentle monitor and friend; And I have gathered from thy song, Thoughts full of balm for grief and wrong, That solace while they mend! XI. Hence, have I sought, in simple phrase, To give my gratitude a tongue; And if one stricken heart I bring, Not vainly have I sung. XII. Adieu! we ne'er may meet on earth, Fair as my cherished thoughts of thee, ON LEAVING SCOTLAND. BY THE REV. C. HOYLE. HAUNT of the bard and painter, hardy child For me,―till health, and reason's self be flown, THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB OF THE COTTAGE. BY MARY HOWITT. OH! poverty is a weary thing, 't is full of grief and pain, It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain! The children of the rich man have not their bread to win; They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin. And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share; They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never know a care. The children of the poor man-though they be young, each one, Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun; And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done. |