Oh! needs it that his tongue should speak,
His varied mis'ry to express ?
That sunken eye and pallid cheek
Proclaim to all his deep distress!
Yet once that abject form, which now
Provokes the scorn of all around,
Was press'd with warm affection's glow,
And felt a parent's fond heart bound.
In sinless mirth his childhood's hours
Were pass'd, around his happy home;
He, smiling, twined the sweet wild flowers,
Nor dreamt of sorrows yet to come.
But, like a summer's angry cloud,
With noiseless pace it hurried on;
Then burst with thunder, deep and loud,
And friends, and love, and home were gone!
MONKEY, little merry fellow,
Thou art Nature's punchinello!
Full of fun as Puck could be;
Harlequin might learn of thee!
Look now at his odd grimaces!
Saw
you e'er such comic faces?
Now like learned judge sedate;
Now with nonsense in his pate!
Nature, in a sunny wood,
Must have been in merry mood,
And with laughter fit to burst,
Monkey, when she made thee first.
How you leap'd and frisk'd about
When your life you first found out;
How you threw, in roguish mirth,
Cocoa-nuts on mother Earth!
How you sat and made a din
Louder than had ever been,
Till the parrots, all a-riot,
Chatter'd too, to keep you quiet!
Look now at him! slily peep;
He pretends he is asleep;
Fast asleep upon his bed,
With his arm beneath his head.
Now that posture is not right,
And he is not settled quite;
There! that's better than before,
And the knave pretends to snore.
Ha! he is not half asleep!
See, he slily takes a peep.
Monkey, though your eyes were shut,
You could see this little nut.
You shall have it, pigmy brother.
What, another ? and another?
Nay, your cheeks are like a sack;
Sit down and begin to crack.
There, the little ancient man
Cracks as fast as crack he can.
Now good-by, you merry fellow,
Nature's primest punchinello!
THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW.
WILLIAM HOWITT.
AND is the swallow gone?
Who beheld it?
Which way sail'd it ?
Farewell bade it none?
No mortal saw it go:-
But who doth hear
Its summer cheer,
As it flitteth to and fro ?
So the freed spirit flies!
From its shrouding clay
It steals away,
Like the swallow from the skies.
Whither? wherefore doth it go?
"Tis all unknown;;
We feel alone
That a void is left below.
On! let the friends of morning bless Its bright and glorious ray;
But richer far in loveliness
I deem the close of day.
'Tis sweet to watch the morning sun
Rising o'er hill and tower;
But sweeter, when his course has run,
To mark the sunset hour.
How many with the early morn,
To care and toil arise-
Their lot so dreary and forlorn,
Its beauty cannot prize.
But sweet the calm of dewy eve
To the toil and care-worn breast; And brighter joys around them weave Than morning's golden crest.
Then, those who love the rising sun
May bless his glorious ray;
But sweeter, when his course has run,
I'll deem the closing day.
MRS. SIGOURNEY.
I SAW an aged woman bow
To weariness and care;
Time wrote his sorrows on her brow,
And 'mid her frosted hair.
What was it, that like sunbeams clear,
O'er her wan features run,
As pressing tow'rd her deafen'd ear,
I named her absent son?
What was it?-Ask a mother's breast!
Through which a fountain flows,
Perennial, fathomless, and bless'd,
By winter never froze.
What was it?-Ask the King of kings,
Who hath decreed above,
That change shall mark all earthly things, Except a mother's love.
TO-MORROW.
J. H. R. BAYLEY.
THE things of time are order'd so,
That every smiling joy below
May cope with weeping sorrow;
And he's deceived who idly dreams
That life's dim sun must shed its beams
'Midst clouds of mist to-morrow.
When heavy sighs press o'er the heart,
And tears of disappointment start
Down many a scathing furrow-
How wretched would be human lot
Were not those sighs and tears forgot
In bounding joys to-morrow!
So varied is this world of change,
Wherein mankind is doom'd to range,
All claim a right to borrow
The pleasing hope, that things may wear,
Upon the frowning face of care,
A brighter cast to-morrow.
FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time;
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.
Ottewas' tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.
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