Nature, but now, a paradise disclosed!

I gazed upon the venerable tree,

That seemed, so late, to scorn the lapse of time:
I think upon that dear one, cold in death;
And, sick at heart, I feel as though the world,
With all its pomp-with all its joys and smiles-
Could never charm again!****

ON DISCRETION OF CHARACTER.

Crabbe.

'Tis right, 'tis just, to feel contempt for vice;
But he that shews it may be over-nice.
There are who feel, when young, the false sublime,
And proudly love to shew disdain for crime:
To whom the future will new thoughts supply,
The pride will soften, and the scorn will die;
Nay, where they still the vice itself condemn,
They bear the vicious, and consort with them.
Young Captain Grove, when one had chang'd his side,
Despised the venal turn-coat, and defied;

Old Colonel Grove now shakes him by the hand,
Though he who bribes may still his vote command.
Why would not Ellen to Belinda speak,
When she had flown to London for a week,
And then returned, to every friend's surprize,
With twice the spirit, and with half the size?
She spoke not then-but, after years had flown,
A better friend had Ellen never known.
Was it the lady her mistake had seen?
Or had she also such a journey been?

No; 'twas the gradual change in human hearts,
That time, in commerce with the world, imparts;
That on the roughest temper throws disguise,
And steals from virtue her asperities.

The young and ardent, who, with glowing zeal,
Felt wrath for trifles, and were proud to feel,
Now find those trifles all the mind engage,
To sooth dull hours, and cheat the cares of age.

LINES ENGRAVED

ON THE SILVER FOOT OF

A SKULL, MOUNTED AS A CUP FOR WINE.

Lord Byron.

START not-nor deem my spirit fled.

In me behold the only skull
From which (unlike a living head)
Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived-I loved-I quaffed like thee-
I died let earth my bones resign:
Fill up-thou canʼst not injure me,
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood,
And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of Gods, than reptiles' food.

Where once my wit perchance hath shone
In aid of others let me shine,

And when, alas! our brains are gone,

What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff whilst thou can'st!-another race,
When thou and thine like me are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not?-since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce,
Redeemed from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is their's-to be of use.

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF

RETIREMENT.

Coleridge.

Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest rose
Peeped at the chamber window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossomed, and across the porch
Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye.
It was a spot which you might aptly call
The VALLEY of SECLUSION! Once I saw

(Hallowing the Sabbath-day by quietness,
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen: methought it calmed
His thirst of gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings: for he paused, and looked
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,
Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again,
And sighed and said, it was a Blessed Place.
And we were blessed. Oft with a patient ear

Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen Gleaming on sunny wing) in whispered tones I've said to my beloved, "Such, sweet girl! "The unobtrusive song of Happiness,

"Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard

"When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd, "And the Heart listens!"

But the time, when first

From that lone dell, steep up the stony mount
I climb'd with perilous toil, and reach'd the top,
Oh! what a goodly scene! Here the bleak mount,
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep,
Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd,
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;
And seats and lawns, the abbey, and the wood,
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city spire,
The channel there, the islands and white sails,
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless ocean-
It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, methought,

Had built him there a temple: the whole world

Seem'd imag'd in its vast circumference.
No wish profan'd my overwhelmed heart.
Blest hour! It was a Luxury,-to be!

Ah! quiet dell! dear cot! and mount sublime!
I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right,
While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled,
That I should dream away th' entrusted hours
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart
With feelings all too delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye
Drops on the cheek of one, he lifts from earth:

And he, that works me good with unmoved face,
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,
My benefactor, not my brother man!
Yet even this cold beneficence

Seizes my praise when I reflect on those
The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shuns the wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude

Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!

I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ.

Yet oft when after honorable toil

Rests the tir'd mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot!
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air,
And I shall sigh fond wishes-sweet abode!
Ah! had none greater! and that all had such !
It might be so-but the time is not yet-
Speed it, O Father! Let thy kingdom come!

TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS.

SWEET Flowers! that from your humble beds
Thus prematurely dare to rise,
And trust your unprotected heads
To cold Aquarius' wat'ry skies;

Gifford.