ON A CHILD PLAYING. SWEET bud, that by and by shall be a flower; Young star, that just hath broken on our eye; I love, young fawn, to see thee sport; and yet Let the proud mother smile to see thy ways, Let them enjoy-whilst yet they can enjoy ; And thou shalt quickly sorrow sore to see Though many a high presage be cast upon thee, Though many a mouth be diligent to praise thee,— Though Beauty pine until that she hath won thee,— Yet all the thronging honours that surround thee Time's train is lacqueyed still by weariness; What boots the crownlet of o'er-flattered gold, Or soothe the aching brows that they enfold? If 'tis the end of every hope and vow, Oh! 'tis a thriftless bargain of a life, To live to know that bliss is but pretenceThat gaining nothing in this earthly strife, We only toil to forfeit innocence ! The profit nothing, but remorse the expense! Or that fond grief, that wearies of its state, And pines for toys and gauds worn out of date. Thou art an old pretender, grey-beard Age; Thou boastest much, and yet art but a cheat; And those who toil upon thy pilgrimage, Would turn again with no unwilling feet :--Yea, dewy clouds to evening are most meet. If smiles be Youth's, sure tears are Age's sign, As suns that rise in smiles, in tears decline, Blackwood's Magazine. T. D. ON AN OLD ENGRAVING OF A NUN. 'Tis a most wondrous mockery of life! A dirty scroll, and lined with dirtier ink, Is all I gaze upon; and yet how rife With beauty and devotion! One might drink To read the entrancing promise of that Book Too heavenly for a world so fallen as this,— Upon those hallowed folds that curtain her pure breast. LORD BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. Missolonghi, January 22, 1824. "On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year." 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move; Yet though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone, The worm, the canker, and the grief, But 'tis not thus-it is not here Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now, Where glory seals the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Was not more free. Awake! not Greece-she is awake! Awake, my spirit,-think through whom My life-blood tracks its parent lake And then strike home! Tread all reviving passions down, Of beauty be! If thou regret'st thy youth-why live?— Is here-up to the field, and give Away thy breath! Seek out-less often sought than found- SAPPHO. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. Look on this brow!-the laurel wreath For passion gave the living breath, Look on this brow!-the lowest slave, Might shudder at the lot that gave For, from these lips were uttered sighs, That, more than fever, scorched the frame; And tears were rained from these bright eyes, That from the heart, like life-blood, came. She loved!-she felt the lightning-gleam, And she had hope-the treacherous hope, Then all gave way-mind, passion, pride! She cast one weeping glance above, And buried in her bed, the tide, The whole concentred strife of Love! LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST VIEW OF FONTHILL ABBEY. BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. THE mighty master waved his wand, and lo! Be broken, that arrayed those radiant forms so well! |