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The fairy sports of infancy,

Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends,—with thee, I find in this far clime.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
O, for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May dews of that fair land,
Where daisies, thick as starlight, stand
In every walk!-that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen;
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.


"Ye have done it unto me."-Matt. xxv. 40.

A POOR wayfaring man of grief
Hath often cross'd me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,
That I could never answer, "Nay;"
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet was there something in his eye,
That won my love, I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He enter'd;-not a word he spake :-
Just perishing for want of bread;
I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again;
Mine was an angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,
He heard it, saw it hurrying on:

I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,
Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;
I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew

To bid him welcome to my roof;

I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, I found him by the highway side:

I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, Revived his spirit, and supplied

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Now, to return (for we have wander'd far)
To what was nothing but a simple star;
-Where all was jollity around,
No fellowship the stranger found.
Those lowliest children of the earth,
That never leave their mother's lap,
Companions in their harmless mirth,
Were smiling, blushing, dancing there,
Feasting on dew, and light, and air,
And fearing no mishap,

Save from the hand of lady fair,
Who, on her wonted walk,

Pluck'd one and then another,
A sister or a brother,

From its elastic stalk;

Happy, no doubt, for one sharp pang, to die
On her sweet bosom, withering in her eye.

Thus all day long that star's hard lot,
While bliss and beauty ran to waste,
Was but to witness on the spot
Beauty and bliss it could not taste,
At length the sun went down, and then

Its faded glory came again,
With brighter, bolder, purer light,
It kindled through the deepening night,
Till the green bower, so dim by day,
Glow'd like a fairy-palace with its beams;
In vain, for sleep on all the borders lay,
The flowers were laughing in the land of

Our star, in melancholy state,
Still sigh'd to find itself alone,
Neglected, cold, and desolate,
Unknowing and unknown.
Lifting at last an anxious eye,
It saw that circlet empty in the sky
Where it was wont to roll,

Within a hair-breadth of the pole :
In that same instant, sore amazed,
On the strange blank all nature gazed;
Travellers, bewilder'd for their guide,
In glens and forests lost their way;
And ships, on ocean's trackless tide,
Went fearfully astray.

The star, now wiser for its folly, knew
Its duty, dignity, and bliss at home;
So up to heaven again it flew,
Resolved no more to roam.

One hint the humble bard may send
To her for whom these lines are penn'd:
-O may it be enough for her

To shine in her own character!

O may she be content to grace,

On earth, in heaven, her proper place!


On the exploit of Arnold Winkelried at the battle of Sempach, in which the Swiss, fighting for their independ ence, totally defeated the Austrians, in the fourteenth century.

"MAKE way for liberty !"--he cried; Made way for liberty, and died!

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,

A living wall, a human wood!

A wall, where every conscious stone
Seem'd to its kindred thousands grown;

A rampart all assaults to bear,

Till time to dust their frames should wear;
A wood like that enchanted grove*
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possess'd
A spirit prison'd in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Would startle into hideous life,
So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears,
Whose polish'd points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendours run
Along the billows, to the sun.

Opposed to these a hovering band
Contended for their native land:

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke

From manly necks th' ignoble yoke,
And forged their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords:
And what insurgent rage had gain'd,
In many a mortal fray maintain'd;

See Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, canto xviii.

Marshall'd once more at freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquer'd, he who fell,
Was deem'd a dead, or living Tell!
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burnt within,
The battle trembled to begin;

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found,
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet,-
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes, the homes of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanging chains above their head?

It must not be: This day, this hour,
Annihilates th' oppressor's power;
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield-
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the number she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one, indeed;
Behold him,-Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmark'd he stood amid the throng.
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face,
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And by th' uplifting of his brow

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 'twas no sooner thought than done,
The field was in a moment won :-

"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp ;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

"Make way for liberty!" he cried;
Their keen points met from side to side:
He bow'd amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly; "Make way for liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart,

As rush'd the spears through Arnold's heart; While, instantaneous as his fall,

Rout, ruin, panic, scatter'd all:


An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free: Thus death made way for liberty!


FLOWER after flower comes forth in spring,
Bird after bird begins to sing;

Till copse and field in richest bloom,
Sparkle with dew, and breathe perfume,-
While hill and valley, all day long,
And half the night, resound with song,
So may acquaintance, one by one,

Come like spring-flowers to meet the sun,
And o'er these pages pure and white,

Kind words, kind thoughts, kind prayers indite
Which sweeter odour shall dispense
Than vernal blossoms to the sense;
Till woods and streams less fair appear

Than autographs and sketches here:
-Or like the minstrels of the grove,
Pour strains of harmony and love,
The music made by heart to heart,
In which the least can bear a part,
More exquisite than all the notes
Of nightingales' and thrushes' throats.
Thus shall this book, from end to end,
Show in succession friend on friend,
By their own living hands portray'd,
In prose and verse, in light and shade,
By pen and pencil,-till her eye,
Who owns the volume shall descry
On many a leaf some lovely trace,
Reminding of a lovelier face!
With here and there the humbler line,
Recalling such a phiz as mine.


Ut pictura, poesis.-Hor. de Art. Poet. Two lovely sisters here unite To blend improvement with delight; Painting and poetry engage

By turns to deck the Album's page.

Here may each glowing picture be
The quintessence of poesy,
With skill so exquisitely wrought,
As if the colours were pure thought,-
Thought from the bosom's inmost cell,
By magic tints made visible,
That, while the eye admires, the mind
Itself, as in a glass, may find.

And may the poet's verse, alike,
With all the power of painting strike;
So freely, so divinely trace,

In every line the line of grace;
And beautify, with such sweet art,
The image-chamber of the heart,

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