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When thus were all their honours shorn,

The bud unfolding, rose,
And blushed and brightened, as the morn

From dawn to sunrise glows,
Till o'er each parent's drooping head
The daughter's crowning glory spread.
My friends! in youth's romantic prime,

The golden age of man,
Like these twin Roses spend your time,

Life's little, lessening span;
Then be your breasts as free from cares,
Your hours as innocent, as theirs.

And in the infant bud that blows

In your encircling arms,
Mark the dear promise of a rose,

The pledge of future charms,
That o'er your withering hours shall shine,
Fair, and more fair, as you decline ;-
Till, planted in that realm of rest,

Where Roses never die,
Amidst the gardens of the blest,

Beneath a stormless sky,
You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod,
That blossomed at the sight of GOD.

TO AGNES.

REPLY TO SOME LINES, BEGINNING, "ARREST, O TIME!

THY FLEETING COURSE."

TIME will not check his eager flight,

Though gentle Agnes scold,
For 't is the Sage's dear delight

To make young ladies old.
Then listen, Agnes, friendship sings;

Seize fast his forelock gray,
And pluck from his careering wings
A feather every day.

Adorned with these, defy his rage,

And bid him plough your face, For every furrow of old age

Shall be a line of grace.

Start not; old age is Virtue's prime:

Most lovely she appears
Clad in the spoils of vanquished Time

Down in the vale of years.

Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom,

The-eternal mountains rise ; Virtue descends not to the tomb,

Her rest is in the skies.

AN EPITAPH.

Art thou a man of honest mould,

With fervent heart and soul sincere, A husband, father, friend ?-Behold

Thy brother slumbers here.

The sun that wakes yon violet's bloom,

Once cheered his eye, now dark in death, The wind that wanders o'er his tomb

Was once his vital breath.

The roving wind shall pass away,

The warning sun forsake the sky; Thy brother, in that dreadful day,

Shall live, and never die !

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

SHALL man of frail fruition boast?

Shall life be counted dear,
Oft but a moment, and, at most,
A momentary year?

There was a time—that time is past

When, Youth! I bloomed like thee A time will come—'t is coming fast,

When thou shalt fade like me :

Like me through varying seasons range,

And past enjoyments mourn ;The fairest, sweetest spring shall change

To winter in its turn.

In infancy, my vernal prime,

When life itself was new, Amusement plucked the wings of Time,

Yet swifter still he flew.

Summer my youth succeeded soon,

My sun ascended high, And Pleasure held the reins till noon,

But Grief drove down the sky.

Like autumn, rich in ripening corn,

Came manhood's sober reign ; My harvest moon scarce filled her horn,

When she began to wane.

Close followed age, infirm old age,

The winter of my year;
When shall I fall before his rage,

To rise beyond his sphere?

I long to cast the chains away,

That hold my soul a slave,
To burst these dungeon walls of clay,

Enfranchised from the grave.

Life lies in embryo-never free

Till Nature yields her breath ; Till Time becomes Eternity,

And Man is born in Death.

THE GLOWWORM.

The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female caterpillar

attracts in the night by the lustre of her train.

WHEN Evening closes Nature's eye,
The glowworm lights her little spark,
To captivate her favourite fly,
And tempt the rover through the dark.
Conducted by a sweeter star
Than all that deck the fields above,
He fondly hastens from afar,
To soothe her solitude with love.

Thus in this wilderness of tears,
Amidst the world's perplexing gloom,
The transient torch of Hymen cheers
The pilgrim journeying to the tomb.
Unhappy he, whose hopeless eye
Turns to the light of love in vain;
Whose cynosure is in the sky,
He on the dark and lonely main.

BOLEHILL TREES. A conspicuous plantation, encompassing a school-house and playground, on a bleak

eminence at Barlow, in Derbyshire; on the one hand facing the high moors, on the other overlooking a richly-cultivated, well-wooded, and mountainous country, .near the seat of a gentleman where the writer has spent many happy hours.

Now peace to his ashes who planted yon trees,

That welcome my wandering eye!
In lofty luxuriance they wave with the breeze,

And resemble a grove in the sky.
On the brow of the mountain, uncultured and bleak,

They flourish in grandeur sublime,
Adorning its bald and majestical peak,

Like the lock on the forehead of Time.
A landmark they rise ;-to the stranger forlorn,

All night on the wild heath delayed,
'Tis rapture to spy the young beauties of Morn
Unveiling behind their dark shade:

The homeward-bound husbandman joys to behold,

On the line of the gray evening scene,
Their branches yet gleaming with purple and gold,

And the sunset expiring between.
The maidens that gather the fruits of the moor, *

While weary and fainting they roam,
Through the blue dazzling distance of noon-light explore

The trees that remind them of home!
The children that range in the valley suspend

Their sports, and in ecstacy gaze,
When they see the broad moon from the summit ascend,

And their school-house and grove in a blaze. Oh! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,

Awakening remembrance most dear :
When lonely in anguish and exile I rove,

Wherever its glories appear,
It gladdens my spirit, it soothes from afar

With tranquil and tender delight,
It shines through my heart, like a hope-beaming star

Alone in the desert of night.
It tells me of moments of innocent bliss,

For ever and ever gone o'er;
Like the light of a smile, like the balm of a kiss,

They were, but they will be no more.
Yet wherefore of pleasures departed complain,

That leave such endearment behind?
Though the sun of their sweetness be sunk in the main,

Their twilight still rests on the mind.
Then peace to his ashes who planted those trces !

Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,
With simple and lovely magnificence please

All bosoms, and ravish all eyes :
Nor marble nor brass could emblazon his famc,

Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave
In graceful memorial, and whisper his name,

And scatter their leaves on his grave.
Ah! thus when I sleep in the desolate tomb,

May the laurels I planted endure,
On the mountain of high immortality bloom,

'Midst lightning and tempest secure!

* Bilberries clusterberries and cranberries.

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