If 'tis the end of every hope and vow, Oh! 'tis a thriftless bargain of a life, To live to know that bliss is but pretenceThat gaining nothing in this earthly strife, We only toil to forfeit innocence ! The profit nothing, but remorse the expense! Or that fond grief, that wearies of its state, And pines for toys and gauds worn out of date. Thou art an old pretender, grey-beard Age; Thou boastest much, and yet art but a cheat; And those who toil upon thy pilgrimage, Would turn again with no unwilling feet :— Yea, dewy clouds to evening are most meet. If smiles be Youth's, sure tears are Age's sign, As suns that rise in smiles, in tears decline. Blackwood's Magazine. T. D. ON AN OLD ENGRAVING OF A NUN. 'Tis a most wondrous mockery of life! A dirty scroll, and lined with dirtier ink, Is all I gaze upon; and yet how rife With beauty and devotion! One might drink Sure, on her saintly smile we need but look To read the entrancing promise of that Book Of virgin youth and loveliness, and bliss Too heavenly for a world so fallen as this,- But no-still, still be the fair fingers prest Upon those hallowed folds that curtain her pure breast. LORD BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. Missolonghi, January 22, 1824. "On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year.” "Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move; Yet though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone, The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone. The fire that on my bosom preys Is like to some volcanic isle, No torch is kindled at its blaze : A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus-it is not here Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now, Where glory seals the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Was not more free. Awake! not Greece-she is awake! Awake, my spirit,-think through whom My life-blood tracks its parent lake— And then strike home! Tread all reviving passions down, Of beauty be! If thou regret'st thy youth-why live?— The land of honourable death Is here-up to the field, and give Away thy breath! Seek out-less often sought than found- SAPPHO. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. Look on this brow!-the laurel wreath For passion gave the living breath, Look on this brow!-the lowest slave, The veriest wretch of want and care, Might shudder at the lot that gave For, from these lips were uttered sighs, That, more than fever, scorched the frame; And tears were rained from these bright eyes, That from the heart, like life-blood, came. ON A NEW-MADE GRAVE, NEAR BOLTON PRIORY. SWEET be thy rest! near holy shrine More rich than piles of sculptured clay. For softly on these peaceful knolls And none are here but those who come Or feed in Bolton's holy gloom Sweet memories of a distant home. Sweet be thy rest!-the toils and woes And breathed upon the sacred ground. Those cliffs where purple shadows creep, The crosier's place, the altar-stone, The shrine, the mitred Abbot's niche, And sweets from vagrant roses shed. Changed to a bounteous Baron's hall, His gateway greets the wandering guest, And only on its arrased wall The frowning warrior lifts his crest. Where by a lonely taper's light The cowled and captive bigot knelt, Now summer-suns beam cheerly bright, And evening's softest shadows melt. Where once the yelling torrent's jaws Then trusts her light foot to the wave. Emblem of passion's changeful tide! The flood that wrecked the heedless boy In after years is taught to glide Through sheltering bowers of social joy. For such a tomb of sweets and flowers, But far from thee shall be the torch Of frantic mirth and impious rite; A Christian Hafiz guards the porch, And decks the Garden of Delight. And only kindred hearts can bear The smiling peace that slumbers here; None but the pure in spirit dare Gaze on a scene to heaven so near. European Magazine. |