Nearer sat a fair-haired boy,
    Whistling with a thoughtless joy;
    A shepherd’s crook was in his hand,
    Emblem of a mild command;
    And upon his rounded cheek
    Were hues that ripened apples streak. 
    Disease, nor pain, nor sorrowing,
    Touched that small Arcadian king;
    His sinless subjects wandered free—­
    Confusion without anarchy. 
    Happier he upon his throne. 
    The breezy hill—­though all alone—­
    Than the grandest monarchs proud
    Who mistrust the kneeling crowd.

    On a gently rising ground,
    The lovely valley’s farthest bound,
    Bordered by an ancient wood,
    The cots in thicker clusters stood;
    And a church, uprose between,
    Hallowing the peaceful scene. 
    Distance o’er its old walls threw
    A soft and dim cerulean hue,
    While the sun-lit gilded spire
    Gleamed as with celestial fire!

    I have crossed the ocean wave,
    Haply for a foreign grave;
    Haply never more to look
    On a British hill or brook;
    Haply never more to hear
    Sounds unto my childhood dear;
    Yet if sometimes on my soul
    Bitter thoughts beyond controul
    Throw a shade more dark than night,
    Soon upon the mental sight
    Flashes forth a pleasant ray
    Brighter, holier than the day;
    And unto that happy mood
    All seems beautiful and good.

D.L.R.

LINES TO A LADY,

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH SOME ENGLISH FRUITS AND FLOWERS.

    Green herbs and gushing springs in some hot waste
    Though, grateful to the traveller’s sight and taste,
    Seem far less sweet and fair than fruits and flowers
    That breathe, in foreign lands, of English bowers.

    Thy gracious gift, dear lady, well recalls
    Sweet scenes of home,—­the white cot’s trellised walls—­
    The trim red garden path—­the rustic seat—­
    The jasmine-covered arbour, fit retreat
    For hearts that love repose.  Each spot displays
    Some long-remembered charm.  In sweet amaze
    I feel as one who from a weary dream
    Of exile wakes, and sees the morning beam
    Illume the glorious clouds of every hue
    That float o’er scenes his happy childhood knew.

    How small a spark may kindle fancy’s flame
    And light up all the past!  The very same
    Glad sounds and sights that charmed my heart of old
    Arrest me now—­I hear them and behold.

    Ah! yonder is the happy circle seated
    Within, the favorite bower!  I am greeted
    With joyous shouts; my rosy boys have heard
    A father’s voice—­their little hearts are stirred
    With eager hope of some new toy or treat
    And on they rush, with never-resting feet!

* * * * *

    Gone is the sweet illusion—­like a scene
    Formed by the western vapors, when between
    The dusky earth, and day’s departing light
    The curtain falls of India’s sudden night.