13.

I GAZE upon thy cherub face, And in its placid beauty trace

The sacred stamp of those pure skies, That lent thee to a father's eyes.

No earthly stain is in thee seen,
But all is love, and joy serene;
Hope that alone our souls may cheer,
Hope is not known nor needed here.

So heavenly soft those features show,
That tears of fearful gladness flow :
A misty veil obscures my sight,
And dreamy visions lift their light.

I see a young and ruddy maid
Disporting in the grassy shade;
With flying feet and tresses free,
And looks that laugh and speak to me.

But oh! sad change! on yonder bed
A pale and fainting form is spread ;
And what is he whose lifted dart,
Aiming at hers, would reach my heart?

Yet see again a nymph appears
Of riper frame and added years;
A radiant wreath her locks to bind
By duty and by love is twined.

Anon, a grey and aged sire
Sits feebly by the winter's fire,
While near, with bright and busy hands,
A ministering spirit stands.

Sweet sunny children next I see,
Clustering around that old man's knee;
And one, most loved, whose baby brow
Wears the same grace I saw but now.

The mirror trembles, and no more
I know the forms that pleased before;
The lines a gaudy image bring
Of some vain, fickle, fluttering thing.

With that fair face, as with its prey,
Each idle impulse seems to play,
And o'er it now the shadows move,
Of clouded hopes and blighted love.

I start-with grief and terror chill:
My infant child, I hold thee still ;
I hold thee innocent and pure,
From sin and sorrow yet secure.

That which hereafter thou shalt be
Is partly hid in Heaven's decree;
But oh how much my words and will
Must mould thy fate for good or ill!

'Tis an old Jackdaw, and he sits all alone On a snow-clad stone;

He caws aloud, for the blast is howling,
The black clouds scowling.
The hail is falling around-around,
With a hissing sound,
And the lonely daw, so poor and old,
Is all a-cold.

A maiden sitteth in yonder hall, Where the ivy clings to the solid wall, She sighs" heigho," as she gazes forth On the cold blind face of the snowy north

"Heigho, it is dull and drear! Oh! when will the soft spring cheer The bowers with its beauty bland, Shedding life on the waking land! Heigho, 'tis a weary, a weary hour, When the snow falls fast,

And the moaning blast Sighs in the leafless bower; Heigho! heigho!" and the old Jackdaw

Answers each sigh with a boding caw.

At day's decline that ivied hall
Is lit for the gladsome festival;

And many a lovely one is there, But none to match that lady fair, And Vanity whispers a gentle song To her willing heart as she glides along. Erewhile she longed for the gentle spring

And the Zephyr's whispering;

But now, while treading the gorgeous hall,

And knowing that she is the light of all, The spring with the Zephyr's gentle stir

May sink into wintry gloom for her; Yet oft she starts, with a fearful start, And the life-drops rush to her quailing heart

As she hears, on the wintry blast, a

caw

From the ominous throat of the old Jackdaw.

'Tis midnight now, and the revellers all Are silently sleeping;

No life is in the slumbering hall, Save the old Jackdaw, from a niche in the wall,

Nodding and peeping; Nodding and peeping and shivering

sore,

As he hears the blast with a hollow

roar

Rush o'er the barren moor.

Flitting through the chamber lone
All the livelong night,

While the dew of sleep is strown

O'er each weary wight; Through the aisles, so narrow and long, Where the wintry blast is sighing, With a dull and ghastly song

The lone bird is flying; Flying, fluttering, to and fro, Into every chamber peeping, Where in beauty's genial glow,

Lovely maids are sleeping; Sleeping in the pride of joy,

Tripping Fancy's varied measure, Little dreaming aught can cloy

Such an eager pleasure.

But anguish still, in every clime, Shall pierce him to the core. And now from his throne on the branching yew

The old Jackdaw comes fluttering in, And his croaking voice on the frosty breeze

Is swelling in merry din. Thrice o'er the grave he flaps his wing, And thrice he croaks a hollow cry; Then spreading forth on the cutting blast

He skims the deep blue sky.

The years flow on-and now the tuneful throng

Have filled the budding bowers with voice of song,

And o'er that lone churchyard the placid flow

Of summer sunset sheds a golden glow. Day blends with night in eve's serenest gloom,

Amid the dwellings of the dreary tomb.

On a grave a man is kneeling,
Death in silence o'er him stealing.
He hath wandered to and fro,
Sinking 'neath a load of wo;