I had devoted myself to retrieve the Pathan honour:
Then choice the bands of warriors I had collected,
Would that I could die slain by another's hand in battle!
Rather that than as a Tiger bitten by a mad dog.
Many and vain and useless are my regrets,
Every moment as it passes brings its griefs;
At one time joy is with us, again trouble;
But either passes by at Heaven's decrees.
All the thousands who mustered round me in my dreams
I found scattered far and wide when I awoke:
Some are dead, and some, though live, are parted from me;

The smile of a mother,
The smile of a father,
The smile of a brother,
The smile of a sister,
The smile of a sweetheart,
When fondly you've kissed her,
The moment ere you 'part,
The sweet smile of a wife,
And the smile of a friend
Who proves true to the end,
Are the sunshine of life.

The smile of a mother,
The smile of a father,
The smile of a brother,
The smile of a sister,
The smile of a sweetheart,
When fondly you've kissed her,
The moment ere you 'part,
The sweet smile of a wife,

Thou art gloriously
Crowned at last with beauty;
And thy waxen blossoms,
Born of nameless patience,
Charm away the desert's
Dreariness, as some great
Truth a benefactor's
Cast in persecution
Sheds splendid glory
In another age.

Thou art gloriously
Crowned at last with beauty;
And thy waxen blossoms,
Born of nameless patience,
Charm away the desert's
Dreariness, as some great
Truth a benefactor's
Cast in persecution
Sheds splendid glory
In another age.

A WOODLAND REVERIE .

Oh! art thou one whose young spirit has known
All the sinless ardour of youth,
And deem'd, in the generous glow of thine own,
Each bosom a temple of truth?
And life, in its summer of freshness awhile,
Has welcomed thy glance with its loveliest smile;
And thou hast known no ruth,
But thy tears were transient, and sweet as the showers
That gush, in the spring, o'er an Eden of flowers!

The Day was come, the Morning fine,
 You, Madam, promis'd us at Nine;
James rose at Six, and struck a Light,
Mop'd o'er his Room, set all Things right;
Then clean'd my Shoes, and bid me rise.
I gap'd, and stretch'd, and rub'd my Eyes—
For Shame! said he, what lie 'till Noon?
Why Mira will be coming soon——
Get up and blow, while I fetch Tea,
The Room's all over wet, you see!
Dear me, should Mira find it thus,
She'd scold, and fret, and make such Fuss!

 Well, up got I, and down goes Fem ,
Buys Sugar, Butter, Tea, and Cream,

Your empty page! “A verse, a skit,
A tuneful trifle, deftly writ;”—
I feel as one who writhes with gout
The morrow of a drinking-bout:
When reason reels, and senses flit

O for a shaft of Sydney's wit,
Or Jerrold's gibe, that burned and bit:—
Though no uncourtly line must flout
Your empty page.

“Poeta nascitur, non fit:”
(A trite quotation, I admit)
Its bearing plain,—“Why single out
Prosaic folks—?”—Hurrah! a shout
Of triumph!—“Why?”—I've covered it—
Your empty page!

Under the lee of the Bowden steeps,
By the willowy banks of Avon,
In sunlit meadows the Abbey sleeps;
And the elm trees' lengthening shadows fall
On mullioned window and ivied wall,
And lawns like a churchman shaven.

Sleeps the Foundress under the stone,
Where she ruled — " COMITISSA SARVM,
ABBATISSA, " — in years agone;
And the rhyming monkish hexameters
Dwell on the graces that once were hers, —
" VIRTVTVM PLENA BONARVM "

Centuries three had she lain at rest
'Neath the stone where her name is graven;

I CLIMB'D the glorious mountains of the north,
And gazed in transport from Ben Lomond's brow;
And many a desert cry and wild view now
Are into my glad spirit thence sent forth:
But none more livingly, than when in mirth
We scaled Helvellyn's steep and rocky side;
That gleaming sabbath morn: the storm had died,
And left all radiance round us; but its wrath
Had fallen upon one little mountain lamb,
That by the loud and craggy torrent lay,
Shivering and nestling to its perish'd dam:
The wild flock thence had wander'd all away,

When the dear bliss we wont so long to prize,
And hope, the herald of unseen delight,
Pass, like the vivid meteor of the night,
Just seen, to tempt our steps where danger lies;
When hearts link'd in the dearest sympathies,
By unthought perfidy, are doom'd to sever;
Think'st thou the shock can break the thousand ties
That seem to bind as they would bind for ever?
Ah no! — what tender images will start,
To tell there was a time it was not so;
Young love is faithful, though a faithless heart
May rive its hopes, and, with a traitorous blow,

'Tis twelve o'clock in Possum Flat;
The cabbage steams, and bacon's fat;
The bread is made of last year's corn —
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

The shadows lengthen north and south;
The water wells up in your mouth;
You're neither sober nor forlorn,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

A quiet falls, the smoke curls up
Like incense from a censor cup;
It makes you glad that you were born,
When Molly blows the dinner-horn.

The cur, erstwhile stretched in a snore,
Lays stout siege to the kitchen door;