To feel that thou hadst not incurr'd The deep compunction, bitter shame, Of prostituting gifts conferr'd To strengthen Virtue's hallow'd claim. How much more glorious is the name, The humble name which thou hast won, Than-" damn'd with everlasting fame," To be for fame itself undone. Better, and nobler was thy choice To be the Bard of simple swains,— In all their pleasures to rejoice, And soothe with sympathy their pains; To paint with feeling in thy strains The themes their thoughts and tongues discuss, And be, though free from classic chains, Our own more chaste THEocritus. For this should SUFFOLK proudly own "TIS NOW TOO LATE ! the scene is clos'd, That frame which pain shall rack no more ; Peace to the Bard whose artless store Was spread for Nature's lowliest child; Whose song, well meet for peasant lore, Was lowly, simple, undefil'd. Yet long may guileless hearts preserve While SUFFOLK PEASANTRY may be London Magazine. ELEGIAC STANZAS, Written by an Officer long resident in India, on his return to England. THE following Stanzas are worthy of being committed to memory by young and old. They paint life and the fallacy of human expectations in their true colours, remove the veil which fancy had thrown over them, and shew how different are the mellowed and subdued feelings of declining age from the ardour of youth, and its vivid imaginings of undying bliss.-Ed. 1. I came, but they had pass'd away, The fair in form, the pure in mind,— Where all are strange, and none are kind; Kind to the worn, the wearied soul, That pants, that struggles for repose: O that my steps had reached the goal 2, Years have past o'er me like a dream, That leaves no trace on memory's page: I look around me, and I seem Some relic of a former age. Alone, as in a stranger-clime, Where stranger-voices mock my ear; I mark the lagging course of time, Without a wish,-a hope, a fear! 3. Yet I had hopes, and they have fled; I may not, dare not, cast away; 4. As they, the loveliest of their race, Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep; Whose worth my soul delights to trace,Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep; To weep beneath the silent moon, With none to chide, to hear, to see: Life can bestow no dearer boon On one whom death disdains to free. 5. I leave a world that knows me not, Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. I see each shade, all silvery white, I hear each spirit's melting sigh; But soon the last dim morn shall rise, Nor stone, nor monumental cross, Tell where his nameless ashes lie, London Magazine. THE LAST MAN. WRITTEN BY T. CAMPBELL. OUR observations on the Last Man will be found in our preliminary view of Modern Literature. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, Adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold As Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expir'd in fight-the brands In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; Yet prophet like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood Saying we are twins in death, proud Sun, For thou ten thousand, thousand years What though beneath thee man put forth Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Entail'd on human hearts. K |