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I reached the chancel, nought was changed
._I found no trace
And years have passed and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb ;And cheerful is my mother's brow,
My father's eye has lost its gloom,
Another victim bv thy side;
But not more pure than thee he died.
My boyish days are nearly gone,
My breast is not unsullied now;
Cut their deep furrows on my brow,
And loved and linked my heart with others; But who with mine his spirit blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's ! When years of rapture glided by
The spring of life's unclouded weather,
Our souls were knit, and thou and I,
My brother, grew in love together. The chain is broke that bound us then ;
When shall I find its like again! The Etonian.
ON THE RECEIPT OF A LETTER.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE.
THROUGА many a year the Merchant views,
With steady eye, his distant gains;
And what he seeks, in time, obtains:
Who gazes on a Patron's smiles,
That pleasant view his cares beguiles.
Not such my fate_what years disclose,
And piece-meal on such minds bestow,
Shall this tremendous instant show:-
As on the verge of fate I stand,
And with the ticket in my hand.
No intermediate good can rise,
And feeble compensation make ;
And life's grand hope is now at stake !
That can distress, that can delight;
On him who draws his fate To-night!
ON A CHILD PLAYING.
SWEET bud, that by and by shall be a flower
Young star, that just hath broken on our eye; Pure spring, ere long to grow a stream of power ;
First dawn of Hope, that soon shall flame out high
Into the mid arch of the golden sky;
Let the proud mother smile to see thy ways,
And once again forget herself in thee ;Let the proud father eke the mother's praise,
But, graver, place thee fondly on his knee,
And vainly prophecy what thou shalt bem Pleased with the tongueless eloquence, that lies Still silent, in thy clear blue laughing eyes.
Let them enjoy_whilst yet they can enjoy ;
And, infant son of Time, do thou smile on, Deem not for aye to be the favourite boy ;
Take what thou can'st, or ere thy time is gone,
For still the darling is the youngest son; And thou shalt quickly sorrow sore to see Another, younger still, supplanting thee.
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,
Though worship, wheresoe'er thou goest, delays thee,
Though Fate and Fortune emulate to raise thee, Yet all the thronging honours that surround thee Shall not avail thee, since that Care hath found 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.
ON AN OLD ENGRAVING OF A NUN.
'Tis a most woudrous mockery of life!
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,
Are mine alone.
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle, No torch is kindled at its blaze :
A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
Th' exalted portion of the pain, And power of love, I cannot share;
But wear the chain.
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,
Glory and Greece around us see ; The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free,