But think, beloved one! that to bless
With perfect blessing, thou
Must seek for trusting tenderness,-

Remember then our vow.

ANONYMOUS.

VERSES TO MY FIRSTBORN.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAM DE SURVILLE.

My cherish'd infant! image of thy sire!

Sleep on the bosom which thy small lips presses; Sleep, little one, and close those eyes of fire, Those eyelets which the weight of sleep op

presses.

Sweet friend! dear little one! may slumber lend thee

Delights which I must never more enjoy! I watch o'er thee, to nourish and defend thee, And count these vigils sweet for thee, my boy.

bore thee!

Sleep, infant, sleep, my solace and my treasure! Sleep on my breast, the breast which gladly [pleasure, And though thy words can give this heart no It loves to see thy thousand smiles come o'er thee.

Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend! when thou awakest,

Yes, thou wilt smile to see my joyful guise ; Thy mother's face thou never now mistakest, And thou hast learn'd to look into her eyes.

What! do thy little fingers leave the breast,
The fountain which thy small lip press'd at

pleasure?

Couldst thou exhaust it, pledge of passion bless'd! Even then thou couldst not know my fond love's

measure.

My gentle son! sweet friend, whom I adore!
My infant love! my comfort, my delight!
I gaze on thee, and gazing o'er and o'er,
I blame the quick return of every night.

His little arms stretch forth-sleep o'er him stealsHis eye is closed-he sleeps-how still his breath!

But for the tints his flowery cheek reveals,

He seems to slumber in the arms of death.

Awake, my child!—I tremble with affright!—
Awaken! Fatal thought, thou art no more,
My child! one moment gaze upon the light,
And e'en with thy repose my life restore.
Bless'd error! still he sleeps-I breathe again--
May gentle dreams delight his calm repose!
But when will he, for whom I sigh-oh, when
Will he, beside me, watch thine eyes unclose?
When shall I see him who hath given thee life,
My youthful husband, noblest of his race?
Methinks I see, bless'd mother, and bless'd wife!
Thy little hands thy father's neck embrace.
How will he revel in thy first caress,

Disputing with thee for my gentle kiss!
But think not to engross his tenderness,
Clotilda too shall have her share of bliss.

How will he joy to see his image there,
The sweetness of his large cerulean eye!
His noble forehead, and his graceful air,
Which Love himself might view with jealousy.

For me I am not jealous of his love,
And gladly I divide it, sweet, with thee;
Thou shalt, like him, a faithful husband prove,
But not, like him, give this anxiety.

I speak to thee-thou understand'st me not— Thou couldst not understand, though sleep were fled

Poor little child! the tangles of his thought,
His infant thought, are not unravelled.

We have been happy infants, as thou art;

Sad reason will destroy the dream too soon; Sleep in the calm repose that stills thy heart, Ere long its very memory will be gone!

R.

ODE TO APRIL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF BELLEAU.

APRIL, Sweet month, the daintiest of all,

Fair thee befall:

April, fond hope of fruits that lie
In buds of swathing cotton wrapp'd,
There closely lapp'd,

Nursing their tender infancy.

April, that dost thy yellow, green, and blue,

All round thee strew,

When, as thou goest, the grassy floor
Is with a million flowers depaint,
Whose colours quaint

Have diaper'd the meadows o'er.

April, at whose glad coming Zephyrs rise
With whisper'd sighs,

Then on their light wing brush away,
And hang amid the woodlands fresh
Their aery mesh

To tangle Flora on her way.

April, it is thy hand that doth unlock,
From plain and rock,

Odours and hues a balmy store,

That breathing lie on Nature's breast,
So richly bless'd,

That earth or heaven can ask no more.

April, thy blooms, amid the tresses laid
Of my sweet maid,

Adown her neck and bosom flow;
And in a wild profusion there

Her shining hair

With them hath blent a golden glow.

April, the dimpled smiles, the playful grace
That in the face

Of Cytherea haunt, are thine;

And thine the breath, that from their skies
The deities

Inhale, an offering at thy shrine.

"Tis thou that dost with summons blithe and soft, High up aloft

From banishment these heralds bring,
These swallows that along the air

Scud swift, and bear

Glad tidings of the merry spring.

April, the hawthorn and the eglantine,
Purple woodbine,

Streak'd pink, and lily-cup, and rose,
And thyme, and marjoram, are spreading,
Where thou art treading,

And their sweet eyes for thee unclose.

The little nightingale sits singing aye
On leafy spray,

And in her fitful strain doth run

A thousand and a thousand changes,
With voice that ranges

Through every sweet division.

April, it is when thou dost come again,
That love is fain

With gentlest breath the fires to wake
That cover'd up and slumbering lay,
Through many a day

When winter's chill our veins did slake.

Sweet month, thou seest at this jocund prime
Of the spring-time,

The hives pour out their lusty young,
And hear'st the yellow bees that ply,
With laden thigh

Murmuring the flowery wilds among.

May shall with pomp his wavy wealth unfold, His fruits of gold,