* * * * *

TO T. L. H.

A CHILD.

  Model of thy parent dear,
  Serious infant worth a fear: 
  In thy unfaltering visage well
  Picturing forth the son of TELL,
  When on his forehead, firm and good,
  Motionless mark, the apple stood;
  Guileless traitor, rebel mild,
  Convict unconscious, culprit child! 
  Gates that close with iron roar
  Have been to thee thy nursery door;
  Chains that chink in cheerless cells
  Have been thy rattles and thy bells;
  Walls contrived for giant sin
  Have hemm’d thy faultless weakness in;
  Near thy sinless bed black Guilt
  Her discordant house hath built,
  And fill’d it with her monstrous brood—­
  Sights, by thee not understood—­
  Sights of fear, and of distress,
  That pass a harmless infant’s guess

    But the clouds, that overcast
  Thy young morning, may not last;
  Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour
  That yields thee up to Nature’s power: 
  Nature, that so late doth greet thee,
  Shall in o’erflowing measure meet thee. 
  She shall recompense with cost
  For every lesson thou hast lost. 
  Then wandering up thy sire’s loved hill,[1]
  Thou shalt take thy airy fill
  Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing
  For thy delight each May morning.
  ’Mid new-yean’d lambkins thou shalt play,
  Hardly less a lamb than they. 
  Then thy prison’s lengthen’d bound
  Shall be the horizon skirting round: 
  And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,
  To make amends for wintry hours,
  The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,
  Shall from thy tender brow efface
  Each vestige of untimely care,
  That sour restraint had graven there;
  And on thy every look impress
  A more excelling childishness.

  So shall be thy days beguiled,
  THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child.

[Footnote 1:  Hampstead.]

* * * * *

BALLAD.

FROM THE GERMAN.

  The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
    And ever the forest maketh a moan: 
  Billows are breaking, the damsel’s heart acting,
    Thus by herself she singeth alone,
      Weeping right plenteously.

  “The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
    In this world plainly all seemeth amiss: 
  To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
    I have had earnest of all earth’s bliss,
      Living right lovingly.”

* * * * *

DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM.

  David and his three captains bold
  Kept ambush once within a hold. 
  It was in Adullam’s cave,
  Nigh which no water they could have,
  Nor spring, nor running brook was near
  To quench the thirst that parch’d them there. 
  Then David, king of Israel,