TO MY MOTHER.
WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.
They tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that, fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!
LOVE AND HYMEN.
Love had a fever—ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,
The things he raved about while waking.
To let him pine so were a sin;—
One to whom all the world's a debtor—
So Doctor Hymen was called in,
And Love that night slept rather better.
Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Tho' still some ugly fever latent;—
"Dose, as before"—a gentle opiate.
For which old Hymen has a patent.
After a month of daily call,
So fast the dose went on restoring,
That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,
Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.
LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.
carbone notati.