190 "my native village." 



She hears the wild bee hum — ^the wild bird sing, 



And all the tenderest melodies of Spring ; 



While one clear silvery rill that hastes along, 



Chaunts in her ear its own sweet undersong." p.p. 5, 6, 7. 



In his description of the illness and death of a child, 

 Carrington displays how deeply he had studied the 

 heart of a mother, concisely but effectively he developes 

 her solicitude during the progress of her infant's decay 

 — her care to conceal, by an assumed smile, the 

 preying of anxiety — her tenderness in endeavouring to 

 win away or assuage the disorder by diverting the 

 child's mind among the varied beauties of nature — and 

 her enduring hope to the last: he enumerates the 

 several little blossoms which afforded temporary gi-ati- 

 fication to the child with a minuteness which might be 

 deemed superfluous, did we not call to mind the in- 

 stinctive rapture with which an infant revels amid the 

 beauties of the field : then with that consummate skill, 

 which his feelings as a poet and a parent taught him, 

 he reiterates the several restorative means which the 

 affectionate mother had employed, to impress upon us 

 how patient was that perseverance which tried them 

 one by one, and beheld that they all — all failed. 



" Sweet Boy ! the winter struck thee, and when Spring 



Waved o'er the earth his rainbow-tinted wing, 



The sun gave warmth and music to our vale. 



And health, we fondly deemed, fiU'd every gale; — 



In vain ! He pined, although his mother smiled 



Over a sinking heart, and blessed her child ; 



And could not — would not — see that Death was near, 



But strong in hope, calm'd every rising fear ! 



And still, through all to Love and Nature true, 



Bore him where flowers in fairest clusters grew, 



And loiter'd in the sunny grass, and roved 



By the clear rills, and plucked the gems he lov'd ; — 



The primrose that hangs o'er a sunny stream, 



The king-cup with its glossy, golden gleam. 



And tliat old favorite — the Daisy — born 



By millions in the balmy, vernal morn — 



The child's own flower ; — and these her gentle hands 



Would join, to cheer him, in sweet verdurous bands. 



Then he would smile, oh, when that smile would break 



A moment o'er his worn and pallid cheek, 



