Under my murderer's eye.

Yet, I can never brood o'er you again,
Closing you under my breast!
Its coldness would chill you; my blood would but stain
And spoil the warm down of your nest.

Ere the night-coming, your mother will lie,
All motionless, under the tree;
Where, deafened, and silent, I still shall be nigh,
While you will be moaning for me!




=The Young Sportsman=

Harry had a dog and gun;
And he loved to set the one,
Barking, out upon the run,
While he held the other,
Often charged so heavily,
'Twas a dangerous thing to be
With so young a wight as he
Mindless of his mother.

Earnestly she warned her child
To forego a sport so wild;
While he, turning, frowned or smiled,
And away would sidle.