And Summer's pride, and Autumn's hospitality Have eat up all. And now her festal robes Are worn to rags,-poor rents of tatter'd state, Her motley weeds, and tears her thin grey locks, EPIGRAM. THEY say Despair has power to kill With her bleak frown; but I say No: If life did hang upon her will, Then Hope had perish'd long ago: Yet still the twain keep up their "barful strife," For Hope Love's leman is, Despair his wife. IN THE MANNER OF A CHILD OF SEVEN YEARS OLD. 'Tis silly, sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love AH! woe betide my bonny bride, For war is in the land, And far and wide the foemen ride Still as a dream the purple beam But ghastly bright, at the dead of night, Fair in the skies the sun will rise, But never again our window pane For the warrior stern our cot will burn, It And trample on the bower; grew for years of smiles and tears, "Twill perish in an hour. Those firs were old, our grandsires told, In their good fathers' days; And my soul it grieves that their needle leaves Must crackle in the blaze. Beneath their shade how oft we play'd! But now we 're wed, and peace is fled, In battle plain shall I be slain, And our sweet boy, our baby joy, He'll for his mother cry, Till the hot smoke his voice shall choke, And then my bird will die. Green are the graves, and thick as waves, Within our holy ground; And here and there, an hillock fair, An infant's grave is found. Our fathers died, their whole fireside Is laid in peace together, But, vile as stones, our bleaching bones Must brave the wind and weather. Nay, love, let 's fly, to the hill so high, Where eagles build their nest; Among the heather we 'll couch together, We'll leave the bower and tender flower But the wild blue bell shall bloom as well We shall not die, for all birds that fly And come the worst, we 'll be help'd the first, The mist beneath, that curls its wreath Around the hill-top hoar, There will we hide, my bonny bride, And ne'er be heard of more. SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT. LIKE one pale, flitting, lonely gleam Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight They come and go, and come again; They're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain Before they pass away. But whither go they? No one knows Their home, but yet they seem to say, That far beyond this gulf of woes, There is a region of repose For them that pass away. |