THE SLEIGH RIDE.

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire, cut in alabaster!

SHAKSPEARE.

Oh! who would slumber, this most glorious night,
In ill timed rest; or, cowering by the ray
Of sordid lamp-light, wear his hours away,
In thankless study here? The moon is bright;
Our steeds are harnessed to the flying sleigh,
And forth we speed, our bosoms bounding light,
With merry shout, that chides our brief delay.
What sport is ours, o'erturned, and in the snow
Rolling together! soon to rise again,

Then whirl exulting o'er the snow clad plain;
Careless of danger, so our good steeds go

Swift to their destined goal, - while beauty's cheek Is mantling fresh, with pleasure's ruddy streak, Heightened, by winter's kiss, to loveliest glow.

THE DANCE.

His brow belied him if his soul was sad. BYRON.

And safe arrived, what joy awaits us now,
As answering to the viol's lively sound,
Featly, and gaily, in the dance we bound,

Hand linked in hand. Flushed cheek and glowing brow,

Tell soon what transports such brief hours allow To youthful hearts; nor pause nor rest is found, While swift,

to care unknown,

Chased by the laughing graces.

the moments fly,

Here, love's vow,

Low whispered, fires the cheek; and there the eye
Speaks plain what one, at least, can well discern.
Me, careless of such thoughts, the hours endow
With joy's gay heritage of mirth and fun :
Would it were lasting! but too soon the sun
Shines in, unwelcome, on our swift return.

Away, thou greybeard Wisdom! go
Art not ashamed to show thy face,
Where jocund Pleasure mocks at wo,
And youth with folly joins the chase?
This is for thee no fitting place :
We move not here by square and rule,
But live to laugh, and play the fool!

Ay, play the fool, in fitting time,

Despite what sapless dotards say:

Our pulse beats high, in merry chime,

Our blood runs quick, our thoughts are gay,

Our study now is sport and play :

Then go, good grandsire! haste along,
We else
may do thy grave looks wrong.

We would not that our mad pranks here,

Should grieve thee, Wisdom! or offend; We fain would shun thy frown austere ; Then go in peace, right reverend friend! And should we need, we yet may send; For well we know, if aid we lack, Experience soon brings Wisdom back.

Well-slow, but sure he's out of sight –

Good riddance to his surly lower ! He'll not return again, to night,

To cloud with gloom our festive hour :
Meantime, light hands shall deck our bower,

And gay Hope weave a garland fair,
To wreath the brow of wrinkled care.

Come, broad faced Humour, lively, free,
Loud Laughter, foe to grief and pain,
Wild Frolic, come, and Revelry,

The jovial throng of Comus' train,

Bright Wit, gay Sport, rich Fancy's vein, — Ye all are welcome, e'en the least, When Pleasure spreads for Youth her feast.

But banish hence those foes of life,
Envy and Malice, and the brood
Of sullen furies, Wrath and Strife,
Contention dire, and Anger rude :
These shall not on our feast intrude;
Nor thought of study, toil, or pain
The heyday of our mirth profane.

Good Cheer shall at our board preside,
And well fed Bounty with us sup;
Nor Temperance quite forsake our side,
While gay we sip the red wine up,
Least Youth find poison in the cup,
If pushed too far, till Fancy feel
Her bright powers flag, and reason reel.

Should Wisdom, with a Tutor's face,
Unwonted sight! again appear,

We'll e'en consent to give him place :
With hearty shout, and right good cheer,
Sir Gravity! you're welcome here;

And, sooth to say, since we're together,
We'll crown your cap with Folly's feather!

There is a wild and heartless mirth,
Which guilt on folly can bestow;

It doth not spring from heaven or earth,
But hath its source in realms below:
The root whereon its branches grow,
Is Vice all joy that thence takes birth,
Is madness, ending soon in wo.

The forced contempt that curls the lip,
The sneer of hate, the laugh of scorn,
Could we these false disguises strip,

Would show a heart by misery torn :
The galling yoke of grief is borne,
Heaviest, by those who madly sip

False pleasure's cup, with hearts forlorn.

And I have seen light pleasure fling
Her net o'er many a generous mind,
Entranced within her magic ring ;

While youth on pleasure's couch reclined,
In converse gay with wit refined,
Unconscious that guilt's deadly sting,

E'en there, his inmost soul might find.

The weal or wo, wherein we dwell,
The mind doth for itself create;

And forms within the heaven or hell,

That makes, or mars, our changeful state:

Virtue alone can ope the gate

Of lasting joy, can grief repel,

Or meet, unmoved, the storms of fate.

EXCITEMENT.

Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds. SHAKSPEARE.

If thou, in body to the earth allied,

Would'st in base joys thy sordid pleasures find, Go, wallow in the sty; and quench the pride Of lofty thought, thy high aspiring mind,