It's hard, but I don't wonder at mother —
Many a girl would be quite proud of him,
Older than I — but, loved me from a child.
I only wonder at his faithfulness,
Coming and going those long voyages
After my weak half yes's and half no's,
Taking a hope out to the distant lands,
Bringing his love home in his heart again,
Then coming here, saying to me, " Agnes,
Are you well, sweetheart — happy these long months
That were so long away from you, Agnes? "
(Long! they had passed passionately by me!)
It was so last evening — the old story;

A thousand years by sea and land
Our race hath served the island kings,
But not by custom's dull command
To-day with song her Empire rings:

Not all the glories of her birth,
Her armed renown and ancient throne,
Could make her less the child of earth
Or give her hopes beyond our own:

But stayed on faith more sternly proved
And pride than ours more pure and deep,
She loves the land our fathers loved
And keeps the fame our sons shall keep.

O God of love,
Shine from above,
With mercy strong and tender;
Thy sway alone
My heart would own,
My King and my Defender.

When sore afraid,
To Thee I prayed;
And soon, from Heaven replying,
Thy S PIRIT'S Breath
Wrought life from death,
And gave me songs for sighing.

All foul within,
Laden with sin,
And helpless bound thereunder;
Thy pardon came,
With word of flame,
And burst my bonds in sunder.

Therefore I sing,
O L ORD and K ING ;
My heart with joy o'erfloweth:

A Ballad.

Ah me! how hard the task to bear
The weight of ills we know!
But harder still to dry the tear,
That mourns a nameless we.

If by the side of Lucy's wheel
I sit to see her spin,
My head around begins to reel,
My heart to beat within.

Or when on harvest holliday
I lead the dance along,
If Lucy chance to cross my way,
So sure she leads me wrong,

Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs.

In the retirement of this lovely spot,
Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth,
To boundless hospitality and mirth,
Be ever peace and joy — all care forgot,
Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot!

And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien,
Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles,
Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles,
The vocal syren of this sylvan scene.
Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green.

WAIT God's time, Love,
Wait Our Father's time!
Lovingly, patiently,
Wait God's time!
Clusters green are on the bough;
Canst thou make them ripen now?
Spring must pass, and Summer, too,
Bring its rain, sunshine and dew;
And even Autumn's mellowing frost
May gently come,
Before the vintage-gatherers, Love,
Sing " harvest home! "

Wait God's time, Love,
Wait Our Father's time!
Watchfully, prayerfully,
Wait God's time!
Let not Passion's stormy air
Strip the bending branches bare;

Land of the gentle and brave!
Our love is as wide as thy woe;
It deepens beside every grave
Where the heart of a hero lies low.

Land of the sunniest skies!
Our love glows the more for thy gloom;
Our hearts, by the saddest of ties,
Cling closest to thee in thy doom.

Land where the desolate weep
In a sorrow no voice may console!
Our tears are but streams, making deep
The ocean of love in our soul.

Land where the victor's flag waves,
Where only the dead are free!
Each link of the chain that enslaves

A T dawn of day
I kneel, and clasp my hands, and strive to pray:
But all in vain, dear Love, I bend the knee, —
I can but think of thee!


The Chapel bell
Wakes the loud chaunt and organ's rolling swell:
Yet while my lips in cold responses move, —
My heart burns with thy love!


At still midnight,
Once more the soul attempts her heavenward flight:
But God hath fled, nor hears the empty prayer, —
For thou alone art there!


Help me, dear Love!
And when from God my wandering thoughts will rove,

So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old!
And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed halls
A lute lies broken and a flower falls;
Love's house stands empty and his hearth lies cold.
Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told,
In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls
Beauty decays; and on their pedestals
Dreams crumble and th' immortal gods are mold.
Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone,
One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghost
Haunts all the echoing chambers of the Past —
The voice of Memory, that stills to stone

To myne honest as louing friend Mr Mitchaell Drayton

M ICHAELL , where art thou? what's become of thee?
Haue the nyne wenches stolne thee from thy selfe?
Or from their conuersation dost thou flee,
Sith they are rich in science not in pelfe?
Bee not vnconstant (Michaell) in thy loue
To girles so gracefull in the hart and face;
Although thereby thou maist a poet proue,
(That's poore as Iob) yet euer those embrace
By whome thou dost enioy a heau'n on earth;
And in the vale of teares, a mount of mirth.