But when the sun, with fainter eye,
Sinks far adown the southern sky;
And nipping frost, and wintry blast,
Proclaim the reign of summer past :
All-all are gone, and like a dream
To us, those summer pageants seem.
And so in life, the passing fair,
And all of earth's creation rare,
Do, like the rainbow-heavenly sign-
Their fleeting beauty soon resign;
And yet, oh yet, they leave behind
Their forms on the immortal mind!
ANONYMOUS. FROM BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE."
No plate had John and Joan to hoard--
Plain folks in humble plight-
One only tankard graced their board,
But that was fill'd each night.
Upon whose inner bottom, sketch'd
In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby angel's face.
John took at first a moderate sup-
But Joan was not like John-
For when her lips once touch'd the cup,
She swill'd till all was gone.
John often urged her to drink fair,
But she cared not a jot-
She loved to see that angel there,
And therefore drain'd the pot.
When John found all remonstrance vain, Another card he play'd,
And where the angel stood so plain,
He had a devil portray'd.
Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,
Yet still she stoutly quaff'd,
And when her lips once touch'd the ale,
She clear'd it at a draught.
John stood with wonder petrified,
His hair stood on his pate,
"And why dost guzzle now," he cried,
"At that enormous rate?"
"Oh, John!" she said, "I'm not to blame,
I can't in conscience stop
For sure 'twould be a burning shame
To leave the devil a drop."
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, BORN AT CUMMINGTON, IN MASSACHUSETTS, NOVEMBER 3, 1794.
THIS little rill that, from the springs
Of yonder grove, its current brings,
Plays on the slope awhile, and then
Goes prattling into groves again,
Oft to its warbling waters drew
My little feet, when life was new.
When woods in early green were dress'd,
And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, travelling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,
List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn,
And crop the violet on its brim,
With blooming cheek and open brow,
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou
And when the days of boyhood came,
And I had grown in love with fame,
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried
My first rude numbers by thy side.
Words cannot tell how bright and gay
The scenes of life before me lay.
Then glorious hopes, that now to speak
Would bring the blood into my cheek,
Pass'd o'er me; and I wrote, on high,
A name I deem'd should never die.
Years change thee not. Upon yon hill
The tall old maples, verdant still,
Yet tell, in grandeur of decay,
How swift the years have pass'd away,
Since first, a child, and half afraid,
I wander'd in the forest shade.
Thou, ever joyous rivulet,
Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet;
And sporting with the sands that pave
The windings o thy silver wave,
And dancing to thy own wild chime,
Thou laughest at the lapse of time.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear
My early childhood loved to hear;
As pure thy limpid waters run,
As bright they sparkle to the sun;
As fresh and thick the bending ranks
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks;
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as blue;
As green amid thy current's stress,
Floats the scarce-rooted watercress;
And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen,
Still chirps as merrily as then.
Thon changest not-but I am changed, Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged;
And the grave stranger, come to see
The play-place of his infancy,
Has scarce a single trace of him
Who sported once upon thy brim.
The visions of my youth are past-
Too bright, too beautiful to last.
I've tried the worlä-it wears no more
The colouring of romance it wore :
Yet well has Nature kept the truth
She promised to my earliest youth:
The radiant beauty shed abroad
On all the glorious works of God,
Shows freshly, to my sober'd eye,
Each charm it wore in days gone by.
A few brief years shall pass away,
And I, all trembling, weak, and grey,
Bow'd to the earth, which waits to fold
My ashes in the embracing mould,
(If haply the dark will of fate
Indulge my life so long a date,)
May come for the last time to look
Upon my childhood's favourite brook
Then dimly on my eye shall gleam
The sparkle of thy dancing stream;
And faintly on my ear shall fall
Thy prattling current's merry call;
Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright
As when thou met'st my infant sight.
And I shall sleep-and on thy side, As ages after ages glide, Children their early sports shall try, And pass to hoary age and die.
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