But Childhood flies like spring-time's hour,
And deepening shadows o'er youth lour!
Even thou, fair girl, must one day know
Of life the painfulness and wo,
The sadness that sleep cannot cure,
Griefs that through nights and days endure;
Those natural pangs to mortals given,
To wean us from this earth, and lead our thoughts to
WRITTEN IN THE WOODS OF BOLTON ABBEY.
THERE is no lovelier scene in all the land!—
Around me far a green enchantment lies,
Fed by the weeping of these April skies.
And touched by Fancy's great 'all charming wand,'
Almost I expect to see a lightsome band
Come stealing through the hazel boughs, and cross
My path-or half asleep upon the moss,
Some Satyr with stretched arm, and clenched hand.
It is a place of beauty!-Here, half hid
By yellowing ash and drooping aspens, run
The river waters-as to meet the sun;
And in the distance, boiling in its might,
The fatal fall is seen-the thundering Strid ;-
And over all the morning blue and bright.
London Magazine.
ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,-
The Earth with age was wan,→
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some;
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread
And ships were drifting with the dead,
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by;
Saying, we're twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go.
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth
pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood and earth,
The vassals of his will;-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day!
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.
In piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain, anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of Victory,
And took the sting from Death!
Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod;
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!
New Monthly Magazine.
Paz con Inglaterra, con todo el mundo Guerra.
On that steep ridge beyond Bayonna's bold,
Methought a giant figure did appear,
Sunburnt and rough!-He on his limbs did wear
Bright steel and raiment fairer than of old,
But yet uncouth in speech-'I nothing fear
Yon braggart threats,' quoth he in accents bold,
'Let recreant France her fine-spun plots unfold,
And come with train barbarian in her rear,
Croat or Muscovite!-My native pride
Withered such hosts, when mightier captains led:
Cæsar, Napoleon, ill with me have sped!
And shall I crouch now Freedom is my bride!
No!-the young offspring of that heavenly bed,-
Stand England firm,-shall 'gainst the World make head.'
Morning Chronicle.
FARE thee well, land of my birth,
That spot the most sacred on earth!-
At last I have broken the spell
That bound my heart to thee,--farewell!
Away idle sorrows, that wet
My cheek with unbidden regret!—
I leave no fond sympathy here
That asks, at my parting, one tear.
With a love that scarce death could remove,
Have I clung to thee, land of my love!
Yet found but such fostering and rest
As the babe at its dead mother's breast.
Lift the sail.-The lone spirit that braves
The loud going forth of the waves
Wherever they cast him, will find
A country, and bosoms, more kind.
Lift the sail-all remembrances sleep
In the rush and the roar of the deep,
As its tide blots the lines, which the hand
Of childhood had etched on the sand.
Denied to my chance-kindled fire
The wreath that belongs to the lyre,
Yet my good sword the battle shall join,
And chivalry's garland be mine.
Or victory, torn from the brow
Of the Paynim, shall hallow my vow,-
Or fallen in the strife of the brave,
Young Glory shall beam on my grave!
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