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THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE.
The pine-apples in triple row,
Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The maid, who views with pensive air
Like thine, her appetite is keen,
Our dear delights are often such, Exposed to view, but not to touch; The sight our foolish heart inflames, We long for pine-apples in frames; With hopeless wish one looks and lingers; One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers ; But they, whom truth and wisdom lead, Can gather honey from a weed.
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S
Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
* * * * * * My Mother! when I learned that thou wast
dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture. 17 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss, Ah that maternal smile! It answers—Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! . But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By disappointment every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no
more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
here. Could time, his flight reversed, restore the
hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and
Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them
here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Seems to be so desired, perhaps I might.But no—what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And, tinging all with his own rosy hue, From every herb and every spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense,