English

Why are the Bangash thus calling aloud to me?
Ready I am and armed, my gun have I laid beside me.
Greater the sense and the might of the Gwarrikhels than of the Bangash:
Risen are the Gwarrikhels with me in honour's cause.
In the Bangash see I power neither of numbers nor of valour,
How then shall they join in fight against me?
Perchance they deem me blind, or I am crippled in their eyes?
Of this the ruin of their designs shall be the proof.
Too wise is the Locust to waste his life for nothing;

In these days all look but to their own interests,
Whether it be father or son;
Such indeed is my sons' nature —
I know not if all men's experience is the same.
No regard is his for my rights, or the respect due me;
I know not how such a state of things can have arisen.
He who treats his children with too great indulgence,
How can such an one be deemed wise?
Alas! I know the return my children give me:
All my children are like the Scorpion or the Snake,
Thirty are my sons in number,

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,

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 ,

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

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: