Since April to the trees Gives a bewitching sound, And sombre night to grief gives ease, And peace profound; Since day-spring on the flower A fresh'ning drop confers, And the fresh air on branch and bower Its choristers; Since the dark wave bestows A soft caress, imprest On the green bank to which it goes Seeking its rest; I give thee at this hour, Thus fondly bent o'er thee, The best of all the things in dow'r That in me be. Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true, Which grief, not joy, endears,-- My thoughts, that like a shower of dew, Reach thee in tears. My vows untold receive, All pure before thee laid; Receive of all the days I live The light or shade! My hours with rapture fill'd, Which no suspicion wrongs; And all the blandishments distill'd From all my songs. My spirit, whose essay Flies fearless, wild, and free, And hath, and seeks, to guide its way No star but thee. No pensive, dreamy Muse, Who, though all else should smile, Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose, To weep the while. Oh, sweetest mine! this gift Receive;--'tis throe alone;-- My heart, of which there's nothing left When Love is gone! _Fraser's Magazine._ THE COW. _("Devant la blanche ferme.")_ [XV., May, 1837.] Before the farm where, o'er the porch, festoon Wild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon, Whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests, And the old watchdog slumberously rests, They half-attentive to the clarion of their king, Resplendent in the sunshine op'ning wing-- There stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light, Superb, enormous, dappled red and white-- Soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young, Letting the children swarm until they hung Around her, under--rustics with their teeth Whiter than marble their ripe lips beneath, And bushy hair fresh and more brown Than mossy walls at old gates of a town, Calling to one another with loud cries For younger imps to be in at the prize; Stealing without concern but tremulous with fear They glance around lest Doll the maid appear;-- Their jolly lips--that haply cause some pain, And all those busy fingers, pressing now and 'gain, The teeming udders whose small, thousand pores Gush out the nectar 'mid their laughing roars, While she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps, And never moves. Anon there creeps A vague soft shiver o'er the hide unmarred, As sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard. Dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release, And shrinks not while there's one still to appease. Thus Nature--refuge 'gainst the slings of fate! Mother of all, indulgent as she's great!