VALENTINE, BY AN AGED LOVER.

SOME ladies like a man whose hair

Is bright as threads of gold,
Some the dark youth and some the fair,
But few the man that 's old.

My locks were jetty black in May,
But latest autumn makes them grey.
Where is the maiden that will twine
Round doddered oak, a lithe woodbine,
And choose an old man for her valentine.

"Twere vain to say thou wilt be free

To merry be or grave;

Better an old man's darling be,

Than be a young man's slave.

"Twere vain to talk of common sense,
And lessons of experience;

For tears that in the dim eye shine,
And trace the wrinkle's furrowed line,
Were never shed by winsome valentine.

LINES.

IF I were young as I have been,
And you were only gay sixteen,
I would address you as a goddess,
Write loyal cantos to your boddice,
Wish that I were your cap, your shoe,
Or any thing that's near to you.
But I am old, and you, my fair,
Are somewhat older than you were.
A lover's language in your hearing
Would sound like irony and jeering.
Once you were fair to all that see,
Now you are only fair to me.

As the dew of the morning bestars every blade,

But ere noon is no more on the plain,

Yet abides in the bell of the flower in the shade
Till dew comes at evening again.

So the feelings of youth, the fond faith of the heart,
In manhood dry up like the dew.

Oh! let them survive in the soul's better part,
Till death shall the morning renew.

NEVER till now I felt myself so old

As seeing you so tall, such bursting roses Just at the time when rosy buds unfold

So

Their sweet concealment into summer posies.

may I measure time, nor cease to see His silent work in still maturing graces. I quite forgive what he has done to me,

For what he has bestow'd on your sweet faces.

TO A FRIEND LEAVING GRASMERE.

SWEET Grasmere vale, though I must leave
Thy hills and quiet waters,
Nor sing again at fragrant eve

To glad thy winsome daughters,

Yet will I fondly think of thee,
And thy fair maids will think of me,

When I am far away.

I think of thee, but 'tis a thought
That has no touch of sadness;

I joy to think that I have brought
To thee so much of gladness.

Such thoughts I fain would leave behind

To maidens that are fair and kind,

When I am far away.

SONG.

HAVE you seen the stars at morning, How they blend with rising day, Paling still and still adorning

All the morn with their decay.

Paling, blinking,

Coyly winking,

While the gold usurps the

grey.

So with fancies of the heathen,
Brightest stars of heathen night,
Slowly of their reign bereaven,
Lose themselves in Gospel light.

Stars of warning

Melt in morning,

End their task and bid good night.