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THE LOVER'S SONG.

SOFTLY sinks the rosy sun,

And the toils of day are past and done,
And now is the time to think of thee,
My lost, remember'd Emily!

Come, dear Image, come for a while,
Come with thy own, thy evening smile;
Not shaped and fashion'd in fancy's mould,
But such as thou wert in the days of old.

Come from that unvisited cell,
Where all day long thou lovest to dwell,
Hous'd among Memory's richest fraught,
Deep in the sunless caves of thought.

Come, with all thy heraldry

Of mystic fancies, and musings high,

And griefs, that lay in the heart like treasures,

Till Time had turn'd them to solemn pleasures:

And thoughts of early virtues gone,-
For my best of days with thee were flown,
And their sad and soothing memory

Is blended now with the dreams of thee!

-Too solemn for day, too sweet for night,
Come not in darkness, come not in light;
But come in some twilight interim,
When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim :

And in the white and silent dawn,

When the curtains of night are half undrawn,
Or at evening time, when my task is done,*
I will think of the lost remember'd one!

G. MONTGOMERY.

* And at set of sun,
When my task is done,

Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary!

BARRY CORNWALL.

The Bachelor.

T. Quince, Esq. to the Rev. Mathew Pringle.

You wonder that your ancient friend
Has come so near his journey's end,
And borne his heavy load of ill

O'er Sorrow's slough, and Labour's hill,
Without a partner to beguile

The toilsome way with constant smile,
To share in happiness and pain,
To guide, to comfort, to sustain,
And cheer the last, long, weary stage,
That leads to Death, through gloomy Age!
To drop these metaphoric jokes,
And speak like reasonable folks,
It seems you wonder, Mr. Pringle,
That old Tom Quince is living single!

Since my old Crony and myself
Laid crabbed Euclid on the shelf,
And made our Congè to the Cam,
Long years have past; and here I am,
With nerves and gout, but yet alive,
A Bachelor, and fifty-five.
Sir, I'm a Bachelor, and mean,
Until the closing of the scene,
Or be it right, or be it wrong,

To play the part I've played so long,
Nor be the rat that others are,

Caught by a ribbon or a star.

"As years increase," your worship cries,

"All troubles and anxieties

Come swiftly on: you feel vexation

About your neighbours,-or the nation;

The gout in fingers or in toes

Awakes you from your first repose;

You'll want a clever Nurse, when life

Begins to fail you !--take a wife;
Believe me, from the mind's disease
Her soothing voice might give you ease,

And when the twinge comes shooting through you
Her care might be of service to you!”

Sir, I'm not dying, though I know
You charitably think me so;

Not dying yet, though you, and others,
In augury your learned brothers,
Take pains to prophesy events,

Which lie some twenty winters hence.
Some twenty?-look! you shake your head,
As if I were insane or dead,

And tell your children and your wife,—
"Old men grow very fond of life!”
Alas! your prescience never ends
As long as it concerns your friends;
But your own fifty-third December
Is what you never can remember!
And when I talk about my health,
And future hopes of weal or wealth,
With something 'twixt a grunt and groan,
You mutter, in an under tone,

"Hark how the dotard chatters still!*
He'll not believe he's old or ill!
He goes on forming great designs,-
Has just laid in a stock of wines,-
And promises his niece a ball,
As if gray hairs would never fall!
I really think he's all but mad."
Then, with a wink and sigh, you add,
"Tom is a friend I dearly prize,
But-never thought him over wise!"

You-who are clever to foretel
Where ignorance might be as well,
Would marvel how my health has stood;
My pulse is firm, digestion good,
I walk to see my turnips grow,
Manage to ride a mile or so,
Get to the village church to pray,
And drink my pint of wine a day;
And often, in an idle mood,
Emerging from my solitude,

* I must confess that Dr. Swift
Has lent me here a little lift;
For, when I steal some trifling hits
From older and from brighter wits,
I have some touch of conscience left,
And seldom like to hide the theft.
This is my plan!-I name no name,
But wish all others did the same.

Author's Note.

Look at my sheep, and geese, and fowls,
And scare the sparrows and the owls,
Or talk with Dick about my crops,
And learn the price of malt and hops.

You say, that, when
you saw me last,
My appetite was going fast,
My eye was dim, my cheek was pale,
My bread-and stories-both were stale,
My wine and wit were growing worse,
And all things else,-except my purse;
In short, the very blind might see
I was not what I used to be.

My glass (which I believe before ye,) Will teach me quite another story, My wrinkles are not many yet,My hair is still as black as jetMy legs are full-my cheeks are ruddyMy eyes, though somewhat sunk by study, Retain a most vivacious ray,

And tell no stories of decay;

And then my waist, unvex'd, unstay'd,
By fetters of the tailor's trade,

Tells you, as plain as waist can tell,
I'm most unfashionably well.

And yet you think I'm growing thinner!-
You'd stare to see me eat my dinner!
You know that I was held by all
The greatest epicure in Hall,

And that the voice of Granta's sons
Styl'd me the Gourmand of St. John's.
I have not yet been found unable
To do my duty to my table,
Though at its head no Lady gay
Hath driven British food away,
And made her hapless husband bear
Alike her fury and her fare.

If some kind-hearted Chum calls in,
An extra dish, and older bin,
And John in all his finery drest,
Do honour to the welcome guest;
And then we talk of other times,
Of parted friends, and distant climes,

And lengthen'd converse, tale, and jest,
Lull every anxious care to rest.
And when unwillingly I rise,
With newly-waken'd sympathies,
From conversation-and the bowl,
The feast of stomach-and of soul,
I lay me down, and seem to leap
O'er forty summers in my sleep;
And Youth, with all its joy and pain,
Comes rushing on my soul again.
I rove where'er my boyhood rov'd-
I love whate'er my boyhood lov'd-
And rocks, and vales, and woods, and streams,
Fleet o'er my pillow in my dreams.
"Tis true some ugly foes arise
E'en in this earthly paradise,
Which you, good Pringle, may beguile
By Mrs. P.'s unceasing smile.
I am an independent elf,

And keep my comforts in myself.
If my best sheep have got the rot-
Or if the Parson hits a blot

Or if young Witless prates of laurel—
Or if my tithe produces quarrel-
Or if my roofing wants repairs-
Or if I'm angry with my heirs-
Or if I've nothing else to do—
I grumble for an hour or two;
Riots, or rumours, unreprest,
My niece, or knuckle, over-drest,
The lateness of a wish'd-for post,
Miss Mackrell's story of the ghost,
New wine, new fashions, or new faces,
New bills, new taxes, or new places,
Or Mr. Hume's enumeration
Of all the troubles of the nation,
Will sometimes wear my patience out!
Then, as I said before, the gout-
Well, well, my heart was never faint!
And yet it might provoke a Saint.
A rise of bread or fall of rain
Sometimes unite to give me pain,
And oft my lawyer's bag of papers
Gives me a taste of spleen and vapours.
Angry or sad, alone or ill,

I have my senses with me still;

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