-How long is't Lawrence, since this* creature young, Into bright life, and took his stand in joy A shape to speak, in far futurity, Of thy rare merits to the Muse of Song, When I and all these rhymes have vanished long! See the accompanying Engraving. YOUTH AND AGE. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, When I was young! When I was young ?-Ah, woful when! On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When youth and I lived in't together. Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like, O the joys that come down shower like Ere I was old! Ere I was old? Ah woful ere, That youth and I are house-mates still. L A DAY DREAM. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. My eyes make pictures, when they are shut- A willow and a ruined hut, And thee, and me and Mary there : O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow! A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, And, lo! where Mary leans her head, Two dear names carved upon the tree !— And Mary's tears-they are not tears of sorrow,— Our sister and our friend will both be here to morrow. 'Twas day; but now few, large, and bright, The stars are round the crescent moon ; And now it is a dark warm night, The balmiest of the month of June! A glow-worm fall'n, and in the marge remounting Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain. O ever-ever be thou blest! O Asra! dearly love I thee This brooding warmth across my breast; This depth of tranquil bliss-ah, me! Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, But in one quiet room we three are still together. The shadows dance upon the wall By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber moveless all! And now they melt to me deep shade! But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee, I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee! Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play 'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow! But let me check this tender lay Which none may hear but she and thou, Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women. |