There was an old, old, grey-hair'd one,
On whom had fourscore winters done
Their work appointed, and had spun
His thread of life so fine,

That scarce it's thin line could be seen,
And with the slightest touch, I ween,
"Twould be as it had never been,

And leave behind no sign.

And who were they, those five, whom Fate
Seem'd as strange contrasts to create,
That each might in his different state
The others' pathways shun?

I tell thee that, that Infant vain,

That Boy, that Youth, that Man of gain,

That Grey-beard, who did roads attain

So various, They were One!

"MONTHLY MAGAZINE."

SUCH THINGS WERE.

I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most precious to me!

SHAKSPEARE.

SUCH things were! such things were!
False but precious, brief but fair;

The eagle with the bat may wed;

The hare may like the tortoise tread;
The finny tribe may cleave the air;

Ere I forget that such things were.

Can I forget my native glen,

Far from the sordid haunts of men?

The willow-tree before the door;

The flower-crown'd porch, the humble floor;
Pomp came not nigh, but peace dwelt there;
Can I forget that such things were?

Can I forget that fair wan face,
Smiling with such a mournful grace?
That hand, whose thrilling touch met mine;
Those eyes that did too brightly shine;
And that low grave, so sad, yet fair;

Can I forget that such things were?

I would not change these tears, these sighs,
For all Earth's proudest luxuries;

I would not with my sorrows part,
For a more light, but colder heart;
Nor barter for pomp's costliest fare,
The memory that such things were.

"MONTHLY MAGAZINE,"

THE HEART.

In Imitation of Francis Quarles.

I STOOD in the sweet Spring-time by the side
Of a fair river, rolling wild and free;
Winter's cold chain had melted from it's tide,
And on it revell'd in it's joyous pride,'

As though no ice-touch e'er could bid it bide;
How like, my fond, vain Heart! how like to thee!

I roam'd it's banks once more, 'midst Summer's blaze,
Onward it rush'd to th' unfathom'd sea;

Nor stay'd to listen to the sweet bird's lays,
Nor, calm and clear, imaged the Sun's bright rays,
But rush'd along it's channel's devious ways;

How like, my headstrong Heart! how like to thee!

I stood by that fair stream's green banks again,
When Autumn winds were moaning sullenly;
The dead, sere leaves did it's bright waters stain,
And heavy pouring floods of falling rain,

Swell'd it's full breast, and drench'd the neighbouring plain;

How like, my sad, swoll'n Heart! how like to thee!

I stood again when Winter reign'd severe,

By that stream's banks which cheerless seem'd to me ;

It's once swift waves were frozen cold, and clear,
And seem'd as they an enemy's strength could bear,
Yet fail'd beneath the foot that ventured there;

How like, my cold, false Heart! how like to thee!

And shall the Seasons only when they shew

Their darkest hues, my Heart! thy mirror be? Oh! learn Spring's mildness, Summer's strength, and grow

Mature as Autumn, pure as Winter's snow,

So shall they, when their features brightest glow,
Be most like thee, my Heart! be most like thee!

"MONTHLY MAGAZINE."

MADONNA.

Written on seeing a Painting by CARLO DOLCI, in a
Private Collection at Antwerp.

MADONNA! Sweet Madonna! I could gaze
For ever on that heavenly face of thine;
Albeit I do not worship as I praise,

Or bend my knee devoutly at thy shrine:
For surely there was something of divine,
Within the wondrous pencil that portray'd

The tender softness of those deep blue eyne, That brow's wan beauty, those bright ringlets' braid, And the sweet Mother's smile upon those soft lips laid.

Sure they who worship thee will be forgiven,
Nor bear the penalty of that fond crime;
For in that face is less of Earth than Heaven:
Beauty was ever worshipp'd, from the time
That fabled Venus from the Ocean's slime
Arose; then well may adoration move

Man's breast, for one of beauty more sublime,Rome's Goddess, Queen of smiles, far, far above,Whose offspring was indeed a God, a God of Love!

Madonna! thine own rosy hour is near,

The hour of calm, of softness, and of prayer: And 'tis not well that I be lingering here, Lest my too yielding heart that error share, Which to thy shrine doth countless votaries bear; And Music too is weaving her soft spell,

And heavenly fragrance floats upon the air,

And feelings sad, but sweet, my bosom swell,

And tears are in my eyes, Madonna! Fare thee well!

"PARTHENON."

SONG.

Come, pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart!

Oh! pledge the cup to me!

And I will shew thee, ere we part,

How Wine resembles thee.