“For thee a feast the Schoolboy strews
    At noontide, when the form’s forsook;
  A worm to thee the Delver throws,
    And Angler when he baits his hook.

  “At tents where tawny Gipsies dwell,
    In woods where Hunters chase the hind,
  And at the Hermit’s lonely cell,
    Dost thou some crumbs of comfort find.

  “Nor are thy little wants forgot
    In Beggar’s hut or Crispin’s stall;
  The Miser only feeds thee not,
    Who suffers ne’er a crumb to fall.

  “The Youth who strays, with dark design,
    To make each well-stored nest a prey,
  If dusky hues denote them thine,
    Will draw his pilfering hand away.

  “The Finch a spangled robe may wear,
    The Nightingale delightful sing,
  The Lark ascend most high in air,
    The Swallow fly most swift on wing,

  “The Peacock’s plumes in pride may swell,
    The Parrot prate eternally,
  But yet no bird man loves so well,
    As thou with thy simplicity.”

Among many affectionate tributes to the kind family in whose service he has spent so many years, not the worst are some lines occasioned by the death of Miss Sadlier Bruere, written a few months afterwards (December 1826) at Tours: 

“Thou wert miss’d in the group when the eye look’d around, And miss’d by the ear was thy voice in the sound; Thy chamber was darksome, thy bell was unrung, Thy footstep unheard, and thy lyre unstrung:  A stillness prevail’d at the mournful repast; In tears was the eye on thy vacant seat cast.  Each scene wearing gloom, and each brow bearing care, Too plainly denoted that death had been there.

* * * * *

To earth we consign’d thee, and made an advance,
The thought to beguile, to the vineyards of France. 
But ’twould not be cheated; of all that was rare,
Fond Nature kept whispering a wish thou could’st share: 
No air softly swelling, no chord struck with glee,
But awoke in the bosom remembrance of thee. 
Even now, as the cold winds adown the leaves bring,
We sigh that our flow’ret was blighted in spring.”

* * * * *

THE NECROMANCER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

  “Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please? 
  Resolve me of all ambiguities? 
  Perform what desperate enterprises I will? 
  I’ll have them fly to India for gold,
  Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,
  And search all corners of the New-found World
  For pleasant fruits and princely delicates.”

MARLOWE’S Faustus.

  An old man on his death-bed lay, an old, yet stately man;
  His lip seemed moulded for command, tho’ quivering now, and wan;
  By fits a wild and wandering fire shot from his troubled eye,
  But his pale brow still austerely wore its native mastery.