INVOCATION. [Written in the neighbourhood of Abbotsford, during the last illness of Sir Walter Scott.] SPIRITS! Intelligences! Passions! Dreams! Ghosts! Genii! Sprites! Muses, that haunt the Heliconian streams, Inspiring Lights! Whose intellectual fires, in Scott combined, Ye who have o'er-informed and overwrought ་ His teeming soul, Bidding it scatter galaxies of thought From pole to pole; Enlightening others till itself grew dark, A midnight heaven, without one starry spark;— Spirits of Earth and Air-of Light and Gloom! Awake! arise! Restore the victim ye have made-relume Wizards! be all your magic skill unfurl'd, To charm to health the Charmer of the World! The scabbard, by its sword outworn, repair; Give to his lips Their lore, than Chrysostom's more rich and rare : Dispel the eclipse That intercepts his intellectual light, And saddens all mankind with tears and night, Not only for the Bard of highest worth, But best of men, Do I invoke ye, Powers of Heaven and Earth! Oh! where and when Shall we again behold his counterpart Such kindred excellence of head and heart? So good and great-benevolent as wise On his high throne How meekly hath he borne his faculties! How finely shown A model to the irritable race, Of generous kindness, courtesy, and grace! 93 If he must die, how great to perish thus In Glory's blaze; A world, in requiem unanimous, Weeping his praise! While Angels wait to catch his parting breath— Who would not give his life for such a death? THE MOTHER'S MISTAKE. HEARD you that piercing shriek-the throe Of fear and agonising woe? It is a mother, who with wild Despairing looks and gasping breath, Thinks she beholds her only child Extended on the floor in death! That darling Babe whose natal cry Her nestling treasure she bedew'd, Then clasp'd him with a silent kiss,, And heavenward look'd her gratitude : That darling babe who, while he press'd Would steal an upward glance, and bless With smiles his mother's tenderness; Confining laughter to his eyes, Lest he should lose the teeming prize : That darling Babe who, sleeping, proved, Prepared to catch the smallest noise, Which sometimes hope and sometimes fear Would liken to her infant's voice. With beating heart and timid flush, On tiptoe to his cot she crept, Lifting the curtain with a hush, To gaze upon him as he slept. Then would she place his outstretch'd arm Beside his body, close and warm; Adjust his scatter'd clothes aright, And shade his features from the light, And look a thousand fond caressings And move her lips in speechless blessings, |