In the child's breast the spark began,
Grows with his growth, and glares in man.
But when in life we journey late,
If follies die, do griefs abate?
Ah! what is life at fourscore years?
One dark rough road of sighs, groans, pains, and tears.
Perhaps you'll think I act the same
As a sly sharper plays his game:
You triumph every deal that's past,
He's sure to triumph at the last!
Who often wins some thousands more
Than twice the sums you won before.
But I'm a loser with the rest,
For life is all a deal at best,
Where not the prize of wealth or fame
Repays the trouble of the game;
(A truth no winner e'er denied
An hour before that winner died ;)
Nor that with me these prizes shine,
For neither fame nor wealth is mine.
My cards a weak plebeian band,
With scarce an honor in my hand!
And, since my trumps are very few,
What have I more to boast than you?
Nor am I gainer by your fall,
That harlot, Fortune, bubbles all!
'Tis truth, (receive it ill or well,)
"Tis melancholy truth, I tell.
Why should the preacher take your pence,
And smother truth to flatter sense?
I'm sure physicians have no merit,
Who kill through lenity of spirit!
That life's a game, divines confess;
This says at cards, and that at chess:
But if our views be centred here,
'Tis all a losing game, I fear.
Sailors, you know, when wars obtain,
And hostile vessels crowd the main,
If they discover from afar
A bark as distant as a star,
Hold the perspective to their eyes,
To learn its colors, strength, and size;
And when this secret once they know,
Make ready to receive the foe;
Let you and I from sailors learn
Important truths of like concern.
I closed the day as custom led,
With reading till the time of bed;
Where Fancy, at the midnight hour,
Again displayed her magic power;
(For know that Fancy, like a sprite,
Prefers the silent scenes of night,)
She lodged me in a neighboring wood,
No matter where the thicket stood;
The Genius of the place was nigh,
And held two pictures to my eye;
The curious painter had portrayed
Life in each just and genuine shade.
They who have only known its dawn
May think these lines too deeply drawn;
But riper years, I fear, will show
The wiser artist paints too true.
One piece presents a rueful wild,
Where not a summer's sun had smiled;
The road with thorns is covered wide,
And Grief sits weeping by the side;
Here tears with constant tenor flow,
And form a mournful lake below;
Whose silent waters, dark and deep,
Through all the gloomy valley creep.
Passions that flatter, or that slay,
Are beasts that fawn, or birds that prey.
Here Vice assumes the serpent's shape;
There Folly personates the ape:
Here Avarice gripes with harpy claws;
There Malice grins with tiger's jaws;
While sons of Mischief, Art, and Guile,
Are alligators of the Nile.
E'en Pleasure acts a treacherous part,
She charms the sense, but stings the heart;
And when she gulls us of our wealth,
Or that superior pearl, our health,
Restores us naught but pains and wo,
And drowns us in the lake below.
There a commissioned angel stands
With desolation in his hands;
He sends the all-devouring flame,
And cities hardly boast a name :
Or wings the pestilential blast,
And lo! ten thousand breathe their last.
He speaks-obedient tempests roar,
And guilty nations are no more:
He speaks the Fury discord raves,
And sweeps whole armies to the graves;
Or Famine lifts her mildewed hand,
And Hunger howls through all the land.
"Oh! what a wretch is man!" I cried;
"Exposed to death on every side!
And sure as born to be undone,
By evils which he cannot shun!
Besides a thousand baits to sin,
A thousand traitors lodge within!
For, soon as vice assaults the heart,
The rebels take the demon's part."
I sigh, my aching bosom bleeds;
When straight the milder plan succeeds.
The lake of tears, the dreary shore,
The same as in the piece before ;
But gleams of light are here displayed
To cheer the eye, and gild the shade;
Affliction speaks a softer style,
And Disappointment wears a smile :
A group
of virtues blossom near;
Their roots improve by every tear.
Here Patience, gentle maid! is nigh,
To calm the storm and wipe the eye;
Hope acts the kind physician's part,
And warms the solitary heart:
Religion nobler comfort brings,
Disarms our griefs, or blunts their stings;
Points out the balance on the whole,
And heaven rewards the struggling soul.
But while these raptures I pursue,
The Genius suddenly withdrew
JAMES GRAHAME, author of "The Sabbath," "The Birds of Scotland," "British Georgics," &c., was born at Glasgow, in 1765. He received a good education, and was by his friends articled to a lawyer; but his own desire was to enter the ministry. Accordingly, after a few years spent without profit in his uncongenial profession, he sought and obtained orders of the Bishop of Norwich. He did not obtain a living, but officiated as a curate, first at Shipton, in Gloucestershire; next at St. Margaret's, in Durham; and last at Sedgefield; performing all the duties of his office with Christian fidelity. He died in 1811. All the productions of Grahame display an amiability of mind rarely equalled, and never surpassed. The great charm of his poetry is manly simplicity, and unaffected piety. His touches of rural scenery and modes of life are graphic in the highest degree. His nephew, the late James Grahame, is well known as the historian of the United States.
Six days the heavenly host, in circle vast
Like that untouching cincture which enzones
The globe of Saturn, compassed wide this orb,
And with the forming mass floated along
In rapid course, through yet untravelled space,
Beholding God's stupendous power,-a world
Bursting from Chaos at the omnific wilì,
And perfect ere the sixth day's evening star
On Paradise arose. Blessed that eve!
The Sabbath's harbinger, when, all complete
In freshest beauty from Jehovah's hand,
Creation bloomed; when Eden's twilight face
Smiled like a sleeping babe: the voice divine
A holy calm breathed o'er the goodly work:
Mildly the sun upon the loftiest tree
Shed mellowly a sloping beam. Peace reigned,
And love, and gratitude; the human pair
Their orisons poured forth; love, concord reigned.
The falcon perched upon the blooming bough
With Philomela, listened to her lay;
Among the antlered herd the tiger couched
Harmless; the lion's mane no terror spread
Among the careless, ruminating flock.
Silence was o'er the deep; the noiseless surge,
The last subsiding wave-of that dread tumult
Which raged when ocean at the mute command
Rushed furiously into his new-cleft bed,--
Was gently rippling on the pebbled shore;
While on the swell the sea-bird, with her head
Wing-veiled, slept tranquilly. The host of heaven,
Entranced in new delight, speechless adored;
Nor stopped their fleet career, nor changed their form
Encircular till on that hemisphere,-
In which the blissful garden sweet exhaled
Its incense, odorous clouds,—the Sabbath dawn
Arose; then wide the flying circle sped,
And soared in semblance of a mighty rainbow.
Silent ascend the choirs of seraphim,
No harp resounds, mute each voice is: the burst
Of joy and praise reluctant they repress,―
For love and concord all things so attuned
To harmony, that earth must have received
The grand vibration, and to the centre shook:
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