Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no! Affrighted he shrinketh away; For, see they would pin him below, In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? Ah, no!-she forgets The charms which she wielded before Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, Shall we build to the purple of Pride— The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside— And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain- And here in the grave are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,— The revel the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board : But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD 13 Shall we build to Affection and Love? Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,— Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve; Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear,— Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow: Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, The first tabernacle to HOPE we will build, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. THE CUCKOO. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the wood, Now Heaven repairs thy vernal seat, Soon as the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee When heaven is fill'd with music sweet, The schoolboy, wandering in the wood And imitates thy lay. Soon as the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest the vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail. WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL. Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green, Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year! O! could I fly, I'd fly with thee; LOGAN. WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL. ; CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear 15 Love thyself last cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, SHAKSPEARE. THE CRUCIFIXION. BOUND upon the accursed tree, Bound upon the accursed tree, |