Besides, what vexid us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing!

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY

NATURAL.

Written in Germany.

IF I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

I'm always with you in my sleep;

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone,

Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

Written in Germany.

"Tis sweet to him, who all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate and gay,

One's own dear children feasting round,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more:

There's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

ANSWER TO A CHILD's QUESTION.

Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!"
In the winter they're silent-the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving-all come back together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,

The green fields below him, the blue sky above,

That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he→→→→ "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"

THE VISIONARY HOPE.

SAD lot, TO HAVE NO HOPE! Tho' lowly kneeling,
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
Would fain intreat for some sweet breath of healing,
That his sick body might have ease and rest;

He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing.

Tho' Nature forc'd; tho' like some captive guest,
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
The sternness on his gentle brow confest
Sickness within and miserable feeling :

Tho' obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,

And dreaded sleep, each night repell'd in vain,

Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams:

Yet never could his heart command, tho' fain,

One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That HOPE, which was his inward bliss and boast,

Which wan'd and died, yet ever near him stood,