195.-WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? What is that, mother? The lark, my child! The morn has but just looked out, and smiled, To warble it out in his maker's ear. Ever, my child! be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, mother? The dove, my son! And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, What is that, mother? The eagle, boy!— Proudly careering his course of joy, Firm on his own mountain vigour relying, What is that, mother? The swan, my love! He is floating down from his native grove; Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 196.-A CHILD'S WISH. I wish that I myself had lived Old Tadmor of the waste : And have seen the Queen of Sheba, And all the ivory palaces, With floors of beaten gold; And in the green fair gardens walked Of Babylon the Old. [1] The notion of the swan singing before its death, and indeed of its singing at all, must be reckoned amongst the agreeable fictions of the poets. And have talked with grey Phoenicians, Of dark and solemn seas, And heard the wild and dismal tales I could have solved all mysteries And read each hieroglyphic scroll, I should have known what cities I might have sat on Homer's knees, Hearing all he knew of Grecian tales, I might have walked with Plato And the Naiads of each stream; And in after days to the seven hill'd Rome, With eager steps to have gone! To have stood by warlike Romulus, In council and in fray, And with his horde of robbers dwelt, In reed-roofed huts of clay! Think of ambitious Cæsar, And Pompey the great and brave ;To have seen their legions in the field, Their galleys on the wave! I should have seen Rome's glory dimm'd, The brown men of the moors. I should have seen old Wodin And his seven sons go forth, From the green banks of the Caspian Sea To the dim wilds of the North; To the dark and piny forests, Where he made his drear abode, And taught his wild and fearful faith, And thus became their God. And the terrible Vikingr, Dwellers on the stormy sea, Mary Howitt. 197.-SWISS HOME-SICKNESS. Wherefore so sad and faint, my heart? Yet weary, weary, still thou art— What find'st thou wanting there? What wanting!-All, oh! all I love! Through a fair land, in sooth, I rove, My home! oh! thither would I fly, My hills, with all their soaring steeps, Here no familiar look I trace, No child laughs kindly in my face, As in my own sweet land. Mrs. Hemans. 198. THE BETTER LAND. I hear thee speak of the better land; Not there, not there, my child." Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, |