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STANZAS.

SING me a Lay!—not of knightly feats,
Of honour's laurels, or pleasure's sweets;
Not of the brightness in Beauty's eye,
Not of the splendours of royalty;

But of sorrow, and suffering, and death, let it tell
Of the owlet's shriek, and the passing bell;

Of joys that have been, and have ceased to be;
That is the lay, the lay for me!

'Twine me a Wreath,—but not of the vine,
Of primrose, or myrtle, or eglantine;
Let not the fragrant rose breathe there,
Or the slender lily her white bosom bare;
But 'twine it of poppies, so dark and red,
And cypress, the garland that honours the dead;
And ivy, and nightshade, and rosemary,

That is the wreath, the wreath for me!

Bring me a Robe,-not such as is worn
On the festal eve, or the bridal morn;

Yet such as the great and the mighty must wear;
Such as wraps the limbs of the brave and the fair;
Such as Sorrow puts on, and she ceases to weep;
Such as Pain wraps round him, and sinks to sleep:
The winding-sheet my garment shall be,

That is the robe, the robe for me!

Oh! for a rest!-not on Beauty's breast,
Not on the pillow by young Hope press'd;
Not 'neath the canopy Pomp has spread;

Not in the tent where shrouds Valour his head; Where Grief gnaws not the heart, though the worm may feed there;

Where the sod weighs it down, but not sorrow, or care; The grave! the grave! the home of the free ;

That is the rest, the rest for me!

"FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING." 1827.

WHAT IS LIFE?

TELL me what is Life, I pray?

"Tis a changing April day,

Now dull as March, now blithe as May:
A little gloom, a little light,

Nought certain but th' approach of night;
At morn and evening, dew appears,
And Life begins and ends with tears.

Yet what is Life, I pray thee tell?
"Tis a varied sounding bell,
Now a triumph, now a knell :

At first it rings of hope and pleasure,
Then, sorrow mingles in the measure,
And then a stern and solemn toll,
The Requiem of a parted Soul.

Yet once again say what is Life?
'Tis a Tale with wonder rife,
Full of sorrow, full of strife:
A Tale that first enchants the ear,
Then fills the Soul with grief and fear;
At last with woe bows down our heads,
And sends us weeping to our beds.

Still what is Life? That insect vain,
Lured from the Heaven it might attain,
To wed the glow-worm on the plain:
Wealth, pleasure, power at distance seen,
Shine brilliant as the glow-worm's sheen,
Life weds these seeming glorious forms,
And finds them blind and grovelling worms.

Still what is Life, again declare?

Oh! 'tis an arch of promise fair,
Built like the rainbow's, in the air:
With many a charm that's quickly past,
Many a bright hue, but none that last;
All vanishing, away, away,
Ere we can say, how fair are they!

Yet what is Life? A taper's light,
That feebly glimmers through the night,
And soon is quench'd in darkness quite:

Each wind that spreads it's flame but hastes it,
Each touch that trims it's splendour, wastes it;
And brighter as it's lustre plays,

Sooner it's fragile frame decays.

"FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING." 1827.

TIME.

I SAW a Child whose youthful cheek
Glow'd with health's golden bloom,
And light did from his young eyes break,
And his sweet face illume:

The Song he sang was "Dance! prepare
To tread a measure light!"

And his hand held a mirror, where
The Sun was imaged bright:
On wings as swift as Love's he flew,
Blushing like morning's prime ;

And flowers across his path he threw,
And that Child's name was Time.

I saw a Man, whose ample brow
Was furrow'd deep with care;
And now despair, and rapture now,
By turns were pictured there:

The Song he sang was "Heap and hoard, And scale Ambition's height,"

And his hand grasp'd a keen-edged sword Of majesty and might.

Around him throng'd a numerous train, Wealth, Fame, and Power sublime: While his breast swell'd with fancies vain, And his name too was Time.

I saw an aged, shrivell'd form,
With hollow eyes and blind;

He crouch'd beneath the pelting storm,
And shook with every wind.

His Song was "Life's fair tree is fell'd,
It yields before the blast;"

And his lean hand an hour-glass held,
Whose sands were ebbing fast.
Across his path dark phantoms roved,
Of Age, and Want, and Crime,
His wings seem'd clipt, yet swift he moved,
And still his name was Time.

Oh! how Time changes! and Man too,

Doth with the Wizard change;

Borrow his every form and hue,

And in his footsteps range:
And now his mirror, now his sword,
And now his hourglass seize:

Thou fool! why is thy mind still stored
With trifles such as these?

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