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When thus were all their honours shorn,
The bud unfolding, rose,
From dawn to sunrise glows,
The golden age of man,
Life's little, lessening span;
And in the infant bud that blows
In your encircling arms,
The pledge of future charms,
Where Roses never die,
Beneath a stormless sky,
REPLY TO SOME LINES, BEGINNING, "ARREST, O TIME!
THY FLEETING COURSE."
TIME will not check his eager flight,
Though gentle Agnes scold,
To make young ladies old.
Seize fast his forelock gray,
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
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.
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,
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;
To rise beyond his sphere?
I long to cast the chains away,
That hold my soul a slave,
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 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,
Thus in this wilderness of tears,
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!
And resemble a grove in the sky.
They flourish in grandeur sublime,
Like the lock on the forehead of Time.
All night on the wild heath delayed,
The homeward-bound husbandman joys to behold,
On the line of the gray evening scene,
And the sunset expiring between.
While weary and fainting they roam,
The trees that remind them of home!
Their sports, and in ecstacy gaze,
And their school-house and grove in a blaze. Oh! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,
Awakening remembrance most dear :
Wherever its glories appear,
With tranquil and tender delight,
Alone in the desert of night.
For ever and ever gone o'er;
They were, but they will be no more.
That leave such endearment behind?
Their twilight still rests on the mind.
Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,
All bosoms, and ravish all eyes :
Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave
And scatter their leaves on his grave.
May the laurels I planted endure,
'Midst lightning and tempest secure!
* Bilberries clusterberries and cranberries.