HOME-SICK. Written in Germany. 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week And sweet it is, in summer bower, 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; 1 This feel I hourly more and more: There's Healing only in thy wings, Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore! ANSWER TO A CHILD's QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he— "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!" THE VISIONARY HOPE. SAD lot, TO HAVE NO HOPE! Tho' lowly kneeling, He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Tho' Nature forc'd; tho' like some captive guest, Tho' obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams : One deep full wish to be no more in paiņ. That HOPE, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which wan'd and died, yet ever near him stood, Tho' chang'd in nature, wander where he wou'd- He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierc'd, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. THE HAPPY HUSBAND. A Fragment. OFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee A promise and a mystery, A pledge of more than passing life, A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep! That gladness half requests to weep ! Of transient joys, that fear no sting |