A little farm was my paternal lot, Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn.; But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter-once the comfort of my age! Lured by a villain from her native home, is cast, abandoned, on the world's wide stage, And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife-sweet soother of my care! Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. HUMAN LIFE. SAMUEL ROGERS. The lark has sung his carol in the sky, Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptia! white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young In every cottage-porch, with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene, While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride. And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping heard where only joy has been; When, by his children borne, and from his door, Slowly departing to return no more, He rests in holy earth with them that went before. And such is human life; so gliding or, It glimmers like a metcor, and is gone! Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows' COMPLAINT OF NATURE. Few are thy days, and full of woe, 'Determined are the days that fly Successive o'er thy head; The numbered hour in on the wing That lays thee with the dead. Alas! the little day of life Is shorter than a span; Yet black with thousand hidden ills To miserable man. 'Gay is thy morning, flattering hope • Before its splendid hour the cloud Comes o'er its beam of light; A pilgrim in a weary land, 'Behold! sad emblem of thy state, The flowers that paint the field; Or trees that crown the mountain's brow, And boughs and blossoms yield. And falls a clod of clay, The soul immortal wings its flight To never-setting day. 'Prepared of old for wicked men LOUGHRIG TARN. JOHN WILSON. Thou guardian Naiad of this little lake, Beauteous as blest, O Naiad, thou must be! Bars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound, There oft thou liest 'mid the echoing bleat Not undelightful to the quiet breast Such solitary dreams as now have fill'd My busy fancy: dreams that rise in peace, And thither lead; partaking in their flight Of human interests and earthly joys. To her seem lovely as the western sky Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine, And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart Meeting or parting with thy smiles of peace. But now thy mild and gentle character, More deeply felt than ever, seems to blend Its essence pure with mine, like some sweet tune Oft heard before with pleasure, but at last, In one high moment of inspired bliss, Borne through the spirit like an angel's song. This is the solitude that reason loves! Even he who yearns for human sympathies, And hears a music in the breath of man, Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood, Might live a hermit nere, and mark the sun Rising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm, Devoutly blending in his happy soul Thoughts both of earth and heaven!-Yon moun. tain side, Rejoicing in its clustering cottages, Appears to me a paradise preserved From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreath Thy sanctity Time yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feel O gentlest lake! from all unhallow'd things By grandeur guarded in thy lovliness, Ne'er may the poet with unwelcome feet Press thy soft moss embathed in flowery dies, And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens. May innocence forever lead me here, To form amid the silence high resolves For future life; resolves, that, born in peace, Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mild As infants in their play, when brought to bear On the world's business, shall assert their power And majesty and lead me boldly on Like giants conquering in a noble cause. This is a holy faith, and full of cheer To all who worship Nature, that the hours, Pass'd tranquilly with her, fade not away For ever like the clouds, but in the soul Possess a sacred, silent, dwelling place, Where with a smiling visage memory sits, And startles oft the virtuous with a show Of unsuspected pleasures. Yea, sweet lake! Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heart Thy lovely presence, with a thousand dreams Dancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave, Though many a dreary mile of waste and snow Between us interposed. And even now, When yon bright star hath risen to warn me home, I bid thee farewell in the certain hope That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyes THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. AMELIA OPIE Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale; Ah! sure my looks must pity wake; 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy: But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And now I am an orphan boy. Poor foolish child! how pleased was I When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly, And see the lighted windows flame! To force me home my mother sought; She could not bear to see my joy: For with my father's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy. The people's shouts were long and loud, My mother, shuddering, closed her ears. 'Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd; My mother answered with her tears. 'Why are you crying thus,' said I, 'While others laugh and shout with joy?' She kissed me-and, with such a sigh! She called me her poor orphan boy, 'What is an orphan boy!' I cried, " You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!' And now they've tolled my mother's knell, O lady, I have learned too well Oh, were I by your bounty fed! Nay, gentle lady, do not chideTrust me, I mean to earn my bread; The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep!-ha!-this to me! You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look, and see Your happy, happy, orphan boy! HOPE AND PRIDE. ALEXANDER POPE-" ESSAY ON MAN." Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate. And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar, Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. What future bliss, He gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never Is, but always To be blest: The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; His faithful dog shall bear him company. Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense, Weigh thy opinion against Providence; Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, Of Order, sins agains the Eternal Cause. NIGHT IN THE DESERT. ROBERT SOUTHEY.—“ THALABA.” How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky Who, at this untimely hour, No palm-grove islanded amid the waste. THE KING OF THULE. GOETHE "FAUST." There was a king in Thule Was faithful till the grave, To whom his mistress, dying, A golden goblet gave. Naught was to him more precious, As oft as he drank thereout. When came his time of dying, The towns in his land he toid Naught else to his heir denying Except the goblet of gold. He sat at the royal banquet With his knights of high degree, In the lofty hall of his fathers, In the castle by the sea. There stood the old carouser, And drank the last life-glow; And hurled the hallowed goblet Into the tide below. He saw it plunging and filling, And sinking deep in the sea; Then fell his eyelids for ever, And never more drank he! TO DAFFODILS. ROBERT HERRICK. Fair Caffodils, we weep to see Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song: And having prayed together, we Will go with you along! We have short time to stay as you; As you hours do; and dry Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning-dew, Ne'er to be found again. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew;The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; BRITAIN A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Where now is Britain?-Where her laureled names, And their wild harps, suspended o'er their graves, Meanwhile the arts, in second infancy, |