Page images
PDF
EPUB

THE ANGLO-INDIAN EXILE.

BY MISS ROBERTS.

UPON the Ganges' regal stream

The sun's bright splendours rest, And gorgeously the noontide beam Reposes on its breast;

But in a small secluded nook,

Beyond the western sea,

There rippling glides a narrow brook

That's dearer far to me.

The lory perches on my hand,

Caressing to be fed,

And spreads its plumes at my command,
And stoops its purple head;
But where the robin, humble guest,

Comes flying from the tree,

Which bears its unpretending nest,

Alas! I'd rather be.

The fire-fly flashes through the sky,
A meteor swift and bright,
And the wide space around, on high,
Gleams with its emerald light:

Though glory tracks that shooting star,
And bright its splendours shine,
The glow-worm's lamp is dearer far
To this sad heart of mine.

Throughout the summer year the flowers,
In all the flush of bloom,
Clustering around the forest bowers,
Exhale their rich perfume.
The daisy and the primrose pale,
Though scentless they may be,
That gem a far, far distant vale,
Are much more prized by me.

The lotus opes its chalices,
Upon the tank's broad lake,
Where India's stately palaces

Their ample mirrors make:
But reckless of each tower and dome,
The splendid and the grand,

I languish for a cottage home,
Within my native land.

AN ITALIAN SONG.

BY SAMUEL ROGERS.

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

N

TO A CHILD AFTER AN INTERVAL OF

ABSENCE.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

I MISS thee from my side,

With thy merry eyes and blue;
From thy crib at morning-tide,

Oft its curtains peeping through ; —
In the kisses, not a few,

Thou wert wont to give me then ;
In thy sleepy, sad adieu,

When'twas time for bed again !

I miss thee from my side,
With thy query oft repeated;
On thy rocking-horse astride,

Or beneath my table seated :—
Or when tired, and overheated
With a summer-day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,

Sleep hath overpowered thee quite !

I miss thee from my side,

When brisk Punch is at the door ;Vainly pummels he his bride,

Judy's wrongs can charm no more! He may beat her till she's sore,

She may die, and he may flee'; Though I loved their squalls of yore, What's the pageant now to me !

I miss thee from my side,

When the light of day grows pale;
When with eyelids opened wide,

Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale,
And the murdered babes bewail;
Yet so greedy of thy pain,
That, when all my lore would fail,
I must needs begin again!

I miss thee from my side

In the haunts that late were thine; Where thy twinkling feet would glide, And the clasping fingers twine; Here are chequered tumblers, nine,

Silent relics of the play,

Here the mimic tea-things shine

Thou wouldst wash the live-long day!

N 2

« PreviousContinue »