A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.

BLESSINGS, O Father! shower,

Father of mercies! round his precious head!
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour,

And the pure visions of his midnight bed,
Blessings be shed!

Father! I pray Thee not

For earthly treasure to that most beloved,
Fame, fortune, power:-oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will!
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,

With its dove-pinion still!

Let such a sense of Thee,

Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,

His bosom guest inalienably be,

That wheresoe'er he move,

A heavenly light serene

Upon his heart and mien

May sit undimm'd! a gladness rest his own,

Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!

Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams, Remember'd faintly, gleams,

Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown!

So let him walk with Thee,

Made by Thy spirit free;

And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place, To his last hour be still that sweetness given,

That joyful trust! and brightly let him part,

With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart,

Mature to meet in heaven

His Saviour's face!

THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.*

Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress;

And when this heart hath ceas'd to beat, oh! think,

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just

Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hope of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust!

CAMPBELL.

The scene is in an English cottage. The lattice upon a landscape at sunset.

EUGENE-TERESA.

opens

Teresa. The fever's hue hath left thy cheek,

belov'd!

Thine eyes, that make the day-spring in my heart,

*

Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.

Are clear and still once more !-Wilt thou look

forth?

Now, while the sunset, with low streaming light

The light thou lov'st-hath made the elm-wood

stems

All burning bronze, the river molten gold!

Wilt thou be rais'd upon thy couch, to meet

The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds?

Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more

On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest

With our own evening hymn?

Eugene.

Not now, dear love,

My soul is wakeful-lingering to look forth,

Not on the sun, but thee !-Doth the light sleep

On the stream tenderly? and are the stems
Of our own elm trees, by its alchemy,

So richly chang'd? and is the sweet-brier scent
Floating around?-But I have said farewell,
Farewell to earth, Teresa !-not to thee;

Nor yet to our deep love, nor yet awhile

Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows

Back on my soul in mastery.-One last work! And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts, Clinging affections, and undying hopes,

All, all in that memorial!

Teresa.

O, what dream

Is this, mine own Eugene?-Waste thou not thus Thy scarce returning strength; keep thy rich thoughts

For happier days! they will not melt away

Like passing music from the lute—dear friend !

Dearest of friends! thou canst win back at will

The glorious visions.

Eugene.

Yes! the unseen land

Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice

To call me hence.-Oh! be thou not deceived!

Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa!

I must, must leave thee !-Yet be strong, my love,

As thou hast still been gentle.

Teresa.

O Eugene !

What will this dim world be to me, Eugene,