And fill the seat with belle and beau Perchance all thoughtless as they tread Of that dark house of kindred dead In turn receive to silent rest, The feather'd hearse and sable train Brought many a distant country through And when the race is swept away Still shall the mellow evening ray A POET'S EPITAPH. By EBENEZER ELLIOTT. STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods and skies, His teachers were the torn heart's wail, The tyrant, and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace-and the grave! Sin met thy brother everywhere! From passion, danger, doubt, and care, The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, But, honouring in a peasant's form He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man TO A NEW VISITANT, ON A SEPTEMBER EVENING. By J. H. WIFFEN. "One that from some unknown sphere Brings strange thoughts and feelings here: Dreams of days gone out of mind, Hints of home still left behind; Spring's fresh pastime, winter's mirth, The Blank Leaf. WELCOME, dear child, with all a father's blessing Love's strong subduing strife. Seal'd with the smile of Him who made the morning, 'Tis a strange world, they say, and full of trouble, Yet to high destinies it leads,--to natures Lovelier than thine, fair child! To wing'd Beatitudes, for ever tending, Then, if thou'rt launch'd in this benign direction, What shall it be? on Earth, in Air, in Ocean, Wilt thou, when Reason has her star implanted Rove with Linnæus through the woods, or haunted Shall sky-taught Painting, with her ardent feeling, Or to thy fascinated eye, her mirror Heed her not, darling! she will smile benignly, She has a castle, where in death-like slumbers, She it was, dear, who in Greek story acted Such tragic masques: who in the grape's disguise Choked sweet Anacreon, Sappho's soul distracted, And sear'd old Homer's eyes: Tasso she tortured, Savage unbefriended, O'er Falconer's bones the matted sea-weed spread : Chatterton poison'd, Otway starved, and blended White with the early dead! She too with many a smile thy sire has flatter'd, Shun then the Siren: spurn her laurell'd chalice, But to selecter influences, my beauty, Pay thy young vows,-to Truth, that ne'er beguiles, Virtue, fix'd faith, and unpretending duty, Whose frowns beat Fancy's smiles. Look on me, love, that in those radiant glasses Peace is there yet, and purity, and pleasure; "AS I LAYE A THINKYNGE." The last lines of THOMAS INGOLDSBY, whose real name was BARHAM-the author of the famous Ingoldsby Legends. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, There came a noble Knyghte, spraye; With his hauberke shynynge brighte, Free and gaye: As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye. Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne, As I laye a-thynkynge, most pityful to see. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And a gentil youth was nyghe, As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, But a maiden rent her haire, As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And his face was meek and mild, On his sire; As I laye a-thynkynge, a cherub mote admire. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And the face was white and wan Doth appear, As I laye a-thynkynge-oh! bitter flow'd the tear! As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, |