Seem full of promise:- and with softened tone, The death of one sweet grandchild of his own She was, he said, a fair and lovely child But her more common mood of mind was one In ten brief years her little course had run,— Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad; In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen, But, though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile She loved the wild flowers scattered over earth, All these she loved as much as those who seemed more gay. Yet more she loved the word, the smile, she look, Recurred to memory; for she had been trained, And taught to love, with fervency unfeigned, I dare not linger, like my ancient friend, My theme is one of joy, and not of grief; I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay, Nor stop to paint it, slowly, leaf by leaf, Fading, and sinking towards its parent clay: She sank, as sinks the glorious orb of day, His glories brightening at his journey's close; Yet with that chastened, soft and gentle ray, In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows, But on whose mellowed light our eyes with joy repose. Her strength was failing, but it seemed to sink 'T was like a rippling wave on ocean's brink, One summer morn they missed her :-she had been, After their morning meal; her placid mien And she was left amid that peaceful scene A little space ;— but when she there was sought, Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen! They found her in her chamber, by the bed Before her, was an open Bible spread; Herself upon her knees;—with tender care Of her meek countenance the truth made known: And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan, To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown. Literary Souvenir. WORK WITHOUT HOPE. LINES COMPOSED ON A DAY IN FEBRUARY. BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. ALL nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, And hope without an object cannot live. HART'S WELL, NEAR FARNSFIELD, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE; WITHIN THE ANCIENT BOUNDARIES OF SHERWOOD FOREST. BY MARY HOWITT. FOUNT of this lonely nook, Through the green covert of thy leafy trees; And in thy lucent wave, Green ferns and mosses lave, Dimpling thy stream as sways the passing breeze. Beneath a classic sky Thy hidden purity To nymph or goddess had been consecrate; Had mingled at thy shrine, Bearing rich gifts, thee to propitiate. Then, from thy twilight dim, In the still moonlight had come pealing out; From flower-gifts garlanded, And solemn rite been here, and festive shout. And marvel 't is thy spring, So purely bubbling, Never was sainted, ne'er had cross or sign; No holy hermit's cell, Blessing thy waters, made this nook a shrine! Fount of the forest! no Thy waters' crystal flow Ne'er had a legend—traveller never came, On wearying pilgrimage From distant regions, guided by thy name. As now, 'mong mosses green, Dim in thy leafy screen, Ages ago thy sylvan fount was flowing; The squirrel on the tree, The birds' blithe melody, And drooping forms around thy margin growing. Even then thy cool retreat Here gentle creatures shunned the noonday beam; Here fled the wounded hart, And bathed his antlered forehead in thy stream. Pure fount! there need not be Proud rites' solemnity, Priest, altar, hymn, nor legend, to recall 'Tis by thy silence given, Thy dimness, and thy waters' tinkling fall. There is a spell of grace That lures the spirit to a better mood; Whence? but that man's weak arm Hath not dissolved the charm Which Nature forms in her calm solitude. Literary Magnet. |