k 



"my native village/' 191 



How she would gaze upon her angel-boy I 



How in the mother triumphed, Love — Hope — Joy ! 



And then the birds would flutter by, and he 



Through the calm hour, would watch their motions free ; 



And when that haunter of green depths — the thrush 



Flung his full melody from brake and bush, 



'Twas beautiful to mark his mute surprise. 



And the quick glances of his fitful eyes. 



But harmonies of birds, and lapse of brooks. 



And calm and silent hours in sun-touch'd nooks, 



And charms of flowers, and happy birds, and trees, 



And healthful visitings of vernal breeze 



Availed not ; ceaseless gnawed that worm which lies 



So ambushed in our English hearts, — and dies 



But with the life it takes. Consumption now 



Sat all revealed upon his marble brow. 



And, sometimes, as in fierce derision, threw 



O'er those fine features an angelic hue — 



Quick shifting ; — that strange, sudden bloom which glows 



As falsely as those colourings of the rose 



Which seem so beautiful, and wear so well 



Health's purest tint, while in its deepest cell — 



Its depths of loveliest foldings, lurks a foe — 



A canker that shall lay its splendor low ! " p.p. 9, 10, 1 1. 



He shows equal skill in leaving to the imagination 

 of the reader the parent's first burst of sorrow, on her 

 bereavement, knowing how far short of reality any 

 description must necessarily be. The restoration of 

 the stricken mind to resignation and meek content is 

 pourtrayed with most touching fidelity. 



" Sacred is the voice of grief. 

 And tears, that give the heart a sure relief, 

 Must flow unchecked. 'Tis time alone can bring 

 Relief, and pluck from Sorrow its keen sting ; 

 And deaden the fierce feelings of the mind 

 And shed, at last, the wish and will resigned. 

 Years roll'd, — and though within the mournerh door 

 ^ The tones of gladness never entered more, 

 Yet pensive peace, and meek content were there, 

 Strong, ardent faith, and solitude, and prayer ; 

 And from her lowly cot, at morn and even 

 The meekly warbled lay arose to Heaven !" p.p. 12, 13. 



The Bard of the Village is so complete a picture of 

 the author by his own pencil, that no excuse is neces- 

 sary for extracting the whole ; it has the recommenda- 



