SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. IF I had but two little wings, And were a little feathery bird, To you I'd fly, my dear! But thoughts like these are idle things, But in my sleep to you I fly : (I'm always with you in my sleep!) The world is all one's own. But then one wakes, and where am I? Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, HOME-SICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY.. 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. And sweet it is, in summer bower, Sincere, affectionate, and gay, One's own dear children feasting round, But what is all, to his delight, Who, having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang; This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings, RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. How warm this woodland wild recess ! Eight springs have flown, since last I lay And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills. No voice as yet had made the air As when a mother doth explore The rose-mark on her long-lost child, You stood before me like a thought, Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep Sole voice, when other voices sleep, THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN. COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS, AND IN ABSENCE. DIM hour! that sleep'st on pillowy clouds afar, My gentle love, caressing and carest, With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest; Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs: While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May LADY CAROLINE LAMB, Born 1785, died 1825. IF thou couldst know what 'tis to weep, Thou wouldst not do what I have done. If thou couldst know what 'tis to smile, A heart that knows more grief than guile, And, oh! if thou couldst think how drear, When friends are changed and health is gone, The world would to thine eyes appear; If thou, like me, to none wert dear, Thou wouldst not do what I have done. GEORGE GORDON BYRON, LORD BYRON, Born 1788, died 1824. [From "Childe Harold," Canto III.] THE castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose far white walls along them shine, And peasant girls with deep blue eyes, Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; Above, the frequent feudal towers |