Her presence was a noiseless power,
That soothed us day by day,-
A modest, meek, secluded flower,
That smiled, and pass'd away.

So meek she was that, when she died,
We miss'd the lonely one

As when we feel, on Loxley's side,
The silent sunshine gone.

But memory brings to sunless bowers
The light they knew before :
And Hannah's quiet smile is ours,
Though Hannah is no more.

Her pale face visits yet my heart,
And oft my guest will be:
O White Rose! thou shalt not depart,
But wither here with me.

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT.
1784-1859.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold;
And to the Presence in the room he said-

"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head;
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd-"The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay! not so!"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said-" I pray thee then,
Write me as One that loves his fellow men!"

The Angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light,

And show'd their names whom love of God had bless'd :

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

SONG OF PEACE.

O Thou that art our Queen again,
And may in the sun be seen again,
Come, Ceres! come!

For the war's gone home,

And the fields are quiet and green again.

The air, dear Goddess! sighs for thee;
The light-heart brooks arise for thee;
And the poppies red

On their wistful bed

Turn up their dark blue eyes for thee.

Laugh out, in the loose green jerkin
That's fit for a Goddess to work in!
With shoulders brown,

And the wheaten crown

About thy temples perking.

And with thee come Stout-Heart in;

And Toil, that sleeps his cart in;

And Exercise,

The ruddy and wise,

His bathed forelocks parting!

And Dancing too, that's lither
Than willow or birch, drop hither!
To thread the place

With a finishing grace

And carry our smooth eyes with her.

A NUN.

If you become a Nun, Dear!
A Friar I will be:

In any cell you run, Dear!

Pray look behind for me!
The roses all turn pale too;
The doves all take the veil too;

The blind will see the show:

What! you become a Nun? my Dear!
I'll not believe it. No!

If you become a Nun, Dear!

The bishop Love will be;

The Cupids, every one, Dear!

Will chant-"We trust in thee!"

The incense will go sighing;

The candles fall a-dying;

The water turn to wine:

What! You go take the vows? my Dear!
You may, but they'll be mine.

GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,—
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass!
And you, warm little housekeeper! who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass :
O sweet and tiny cousins! that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth:

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong

At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth

To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,

In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

TO HIS WIFE,

While she was modeling the Poet's bust.

Ah, Marian mine! the face you look on now
Is not exactly like my wedding-day's :
Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze,
Less white and smooth its temple-flatten'd brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough
And strait stern hand. No matter! if it raise
Aught that affection fancies it may praise,
Or make me worthier of Apollo's bough.
Loss after all, such loss especially,
Is transfer, change, but not extinction. No!
Part in our children's apple-cheeks I see;
And for the rest,-while you look at me so,
Take care you do not smile it back to me,
And miss the copied furrows as you go!

TO HIS PIANO-FORTE.

O Friend! whom glad or grave we seek,
Heaven-holding shrine!

I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak,
And peace is mine.

No fairy casket full of bliss

Outvalues thee :

Love only, waken'd with a kiss,

More sweet may be.

To thee, when our full hearts o'erflow

In griefs or joys,

Unspeakable emotions owe

A fitting voice :

Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest,

And Memory dear;

And Sorrow, with his tighten'd breast,

Comes for a tear.

O, since few joys of human mould

Thus wait us still,

Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold
Of peace at will!

No change, no sullenness, no cheat,
In thee we find :

Thy saddest voice is ever sweet,
Thine answer kind.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

1784-1842.

THE SUN IN FRANCE.

The sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he :

But he has tint the blithe blink he had

In my ain countree.

O, it's nae my ain ruin

That saddens aye my ee,
But the dear Marie I left behin'
Wi' sweet bairnies three.

My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie,
And smiled my ain Marie :
I've left a' my heart behin'
In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee;
But I'll win back-O, never!
To my ain countree.

O I am leal to high Heaven,
Where soon I hope to be:

And there I'll meet ye a'

Frae my ain countree.