III. "No one comforts me like my Effie, Just I think that she does not try,Only looks with a wistful wonder Why grown people should ever cry; IV. "While her little soft arms close tighter Round my neck in their clinging hold :Well, I must not cry on your hair, dear, For my tears might tarnish the gold. V. "I am tired of trying to read, dear; VI. "Ah, advice may be wise, my darling, VII. 'But my Effie won't reason, will she? Or endeavour to understand; Only holds up her mouth to kiss me, As she strokes my face with her hand. VIII. "If you break your plaything yourself, dear, Don't you cry for it all the same? I don't think it is such a comfort, One has only oneself to blame. IX. People say things cannot be helped, dear, For if things could be helped or altered, X. "They say, too, that tears are quite useless To undo, amend, or restore,— When I think how useless, my Effie, Then my tears only fall the more. XI. "All to-day I struggled against it; But that does not make sorrow cease; And now, dear, it is such a comfort To be able to cry in peace. XII. "Though wise people would call that folly, And remonstrate with grave surprise; We won't mind what they say, my Effie;— We never professed to be wise. XIII. "But my comforter knows a lesson ་་ XIV. "Well, who is my comforter-tell me? Or look up through the long curled lashes XV. "Is she thinking of talking fishes, XVI. "You long-don't you, dear?-for the Genii, XVII. "But hark! there is Nurse calling Effie! It is bedtime, so run away, And I must go back, or the others Will be wondering why I stay. XVIII. "So good-night to my darling Effie; Keep happy, sweetheart, and grow wise :--- UNSEEN. HERE are more things in Heaven and Earth, than we Can dream of, or than nature understands; We learn not through our poor philosophy The present hour repeats upon its strings Forebodings come: we know not how, or whence, And who can tell what secret links of thought But, though a veil of shadow hangs between A REMEMBRANCE OF AUTUMN. N OTHING stirs the sunny silence,— Save the drowsy humming of the bees And the south wind sighing in the trees, Their beloved Spring! Cloudless rise the azure heavens ! Only vaporous wreaths of snowy white For a brighter land! |