give its little wanderings o'er, For fondling, gentle, sweet repose, When tapering pinions softly close, Slight, warmth—pervaded quills are prest, And head shrunk closely to the breast:             All sleeping but that lovely eye, Which speaks delight, and asks reply:             Oh! with such graces never one Was so much gifted as thy son! In each variety of tone, Each wayward charm, he stood alone; And all too nicely pois'd to press, Or ruffle tranquil happiness.           

                        

             If thus a stranger thinks, who knew Him but an infant—if he grew With all the promise that appear'd So brightly then, still more endear'd—             If, as the Honey with the Bee, Affection dwells with poesy:             If that Affection is comprest, And hoarded in a Father's breast, Whose very soul doth blessings shed Upon a grateful darling's head; While every look is treasur'd there, Till Thought itself becomes a prayer, And Hopes hang on him full and gay.             "As blossoms on a bough in May"[1]—             Shall any venture to intrude             On thee? Oh! not with footstep rude, But with a timorous zeal I come, Just hang this wreath upon his tomb—             Record fond wishes sadly o'er, To see my little favourite more!           

       [Footnote 1:     

       As many hopes hang on his noble head     

       As blossoms on a bough in May; and sweet ones!     

 Beaumont and Fletcher.]     

            

            

            

       XXV.     

             Fear has to do with sacred things, And more than all from Pity springs. Two school-girls once—the time is past, But ever will the memory last—             This moral to my fancy drew, In colours brilliant, deep, and true.           

 Prev. P 40/47 next