I reached the chancel,-nought was changed: The pure white cloth above the shrine,— All was the same.-I found no trace Of sorrow in that holy place. One hurried glance I downward gave,— And years have passed-and thou art now And cheerful is my mother's brow,- With thee he roams, an infant shade, But not more pure than thee he died. And that dear home, which saw your birth, My boyish days are nearly gone,— And worldly cares and woes will soon And life will take a darker hue From ills my brother never knew ; And I have made me bosom friends, And loved and linked my heart with others; But who with mine his spirit blends, As mine was blended with my brother's! When years of rapture glided by The spring of life's unclouded weather, Our souls were knit, and thou and I, My brother, grew in love together. The chain is broke that bound us then ;- The Etonian. ON THE RECEIPT OF A LETTER. BY THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE. THROUGH many a year the Merchant views, And what he seeks, in time, obtains: Not such my fate-what years disclose, As on the verge of fate I stand, No intermediate good can rise, And feeble compensation make; That can distress, that can delight; Oh! how will rise Tomorrow's Sun On him who draws his fate To-night! Literary Gazette. ON A CHILD PLAYING. SWEET bud, that by and by shall be a flower; I love, young fawn, to see thee sport; and yet Let the proud mother smile to see thy ways, Let them enjoy-whilst yet they can enjoy ; Take what thou can'st, or ere thy time is gone, Though many a high presage be cast upon thee,— Time's train is lacqueyed still by weariness; What boots the crownlet of o'er-flattered gold, Or soothe the aching brows that they enfold? 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 Or that fond grief, that wearies of its state, And pines for toys and gauds worn out of date.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 Love that would lift a demon to the skies, 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, 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. |