And sport'st thou thus,' a seaman cried, While terrors overwhelm ?' Why should I fear?' the boy replied, "My father's at the helm.' So when our worldly all is reft, Our earthly helpers gone, We still have one sure anchor left,— He to our prayers will bend his ear, He gives our pangs relief; He turns to smiles each trembling tear,- Then turn to him, 'mid sorrows wild, Anon. LINES. "Oh that I had the wings of a dove,-that I might flee away and be at rest." So prayed the Psalmist to be free From mortal bonds and earthly thrall; Full oft the heart-breathed prayer of all. While hearts are young, and hopes are high, A fairy scene doth life appear; Its sights are beauty to the eye; Is ours fair woman's angel smile, So of her cheek and eye, the while, And with speechless grief opprest, As o'er the faded form we stand, Beyond the hills-beyond the sea, To flee away and be at rest. John Malcolm, Esq. RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. How sweet it is, in twilight shade, To tread the scenes of earliest youth, When all that then our bosoms swayed, Was joy, and innocence, and truth. D The trees the stream-the thrush's song Recall the visions which had fled; Return, and dwell upon the dead! The landscape glows with beauty still; With them the woful change is not- To feelings not to be forgot- Or such as, still endued with life, Tread this wide theatre below, Distance-pursuits-and stir, and strife, The pleasures we in childhood felt Are duller grown-less bold-less bright- As penitence can ne'er procure. Who hath not felt a nameless thrill, When friends of earlier days are met? And rising in the mind, at will, Scenes that we never can forget? Yet the afflicting thought recurs, That all those golden days are o'er; And sorrow in the bosom stirs, To think they shall return no more. |