Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 58, No. 362, December 1845

My dear Eusebius, with this story I terminate my long letter. Ruminate upon the contents. Revolved in your mind, they will yield a rich harvest of thought. I hope to be at the reaping. Ever yours, &c.

A MOTHER TO HER FORSAKEN CHILD

My child – my first-born! Oh, I weep
To think of thee – thy bitter lot!
The fair fond babe that strives to creep
Unto the breast where thou art not,
Awakes a piercing pang within,
And calls to mind thy heavy wrong.
Alas! I weep not for my sin —
To thy dark lot these tears belong.

Thy little arms stretch forth in vain
To meet a mother's fond embrace;
Alas! in weariness or pain,
Thou gazest on a hireling's face.
I left thee in thy rosy sleep —
I dared not then kneel down to bless;
Now – now, albeit thou may'st weep,
Thou canst not to my bosom press.

My child! though beauty tint thy cheek,
A deeper dye its bloom will claim,
When lips all pitiless shall speak
Thy mournful legacy of shame.
Perchance, when love shall gently steal
To thy young breast all pure as snow,
This cruel thought shall wreck thy weal,
The mother's guilt doth lurk below.

    J. D.

SUMMER NOONTIDE

Unruffled the pure ether shines,
O'er the blue flood no vapour sails,
Bloom-laden are the clinging vines,
All odour-fraught the vales.

There's not a ripple on the main,
There's not a breath to stir the leaves,
The sunlight falls upon the plain
Beside the silent sheaves.

The drowsy herd forget to crop,
The bee is cradled in the balm:
If but one little leaf should drop,
'Twould break the sacred calm.

From the wide sea leaps up no voice,
Mute is the forest, mute the rill;
Whilst the glad earth sang forth Rejoice,
God's whisper said —Be still.

Her pulses in a lull of rest,
In hush submissive Nature lies,
With folded palms upon her breast,
Dreaming of yon fair skies.

    J. D.

CLARA

I would not we should meet again —
We twain who loved so fond,
Although through years and years afar,
I wish'd for nought beyond.

Yet do I love thee none the less;
And aye to me it seems,
There's not on earth so fair a thing
As thou art in my dreams.

All, all hath darkly changed beside,
Grown old, or stern, or chill —
All, save one hoarded spring-tide gleam,
Thy smile that haunts me still!

My brow is but the register
Of youth's and joy's decline;
I would not trace such record too
Deep graven upon thine.

I would not see how rudely Time
Hath dealt with all thy store
Of bloom and promise – 'tis enough
To know the harvest's o'er.

I would not that one glance to-day,
One glance through clouds and tears,
Should mar the image in my soul
That love hath shrined for years.

    J. D.

SECLUSION

The heart in sacred peace may dwell,