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THE DAY OF LIFE.
Oh! blue were the mountains,
The blue hills are shrouded,
In fear and in sadness,
Oh! visit not
Oh! come not, Maid !
Oh! weep not, Love!
Oh ! then, fair Maid !
BIRTH-DAY STANZAS TO MY CHILD.
My spirit revels deep in dreams to-day;
I dimly recognize the scenes around; For though thy fairy form is far away,
And still thy father treads this foreign ground, He sees thee in thy native fields at play,
And hears thy light laugh's sweet familiar sound Merry and musical as birds in May !
This is thy patal morn-a date how dear !
tender memories mark the time! How oft thy prattle charmed a parent's ear,
And soothed his soul in this ungenial clime ! How oft, when impious discontent was near,
Thy sinless smile hath kindled hopes sublime, And made the gloom of exile seem less drear!
Though now in weary loneliness I learn
What countless miseries broken ties may Though vainly to deserted rooms I turn
For one domestic charm, I will not A shade upon this hour, nor idly ye.
For pleasures passed on Time's tr Nor pine at Fate's decrees, howey
Dear Child! to thee devoted is the day,
Thy brethren, (gentle twins,) and she who bears
The small white English cottage sweetly wears
Their tribute-praise, foretel thy future years,
And when the cheerful feast is nearly o'er,
The wine-cup shall be filled, and thy dear name
Regardful of the time; a pleasing shame
Of Birth-day gifts shall childhood's dreams inflame,
And yet, 'mid all this mirthfulness and pride,
The sudden tears shall dim thy mother's eye,
Thy glittering gauds, and stand in silence by,
On England's happy shores to live or die,
But this blest day no cares shall shade my heart,
Save such as pass like clouds o'er summer skies ; As once thy presence bade despair depart,
S row before thy memory sorrow flies ;
Wur forms of home, that wake a sweet surprise,
The lineaments of the body will discover those natural inclinations of the mind which dissimulation will conceal or discipline will suppress.
Lord Bacon. I knew by his face there was something in him.
Shukespeare. I am so apt to frame a notion of every man's humour or circumstances by his looks, that I have sometimes employed myself from Charing-cross to the Royal Exchange in drawing the characters of those who have passed by me. When I see a man with a sour rivelled face, I cannot forbear pitying his wife : and when I meet with an open ingenuous countenance, think on the happiness of his friends, his family and relations.
PAYSIOGNOMY is a science which most people smile at, and which all practise. It is more easily ridiculed than abandoned. The old and the young, the wise and the foolish, the shrewd and the simple, the suspicious and the confiding, all trust more or less, either for good or for evil, to the outward and visible signs of the internal spirit. The philosophical testimonies in favor of this science are sufficiently respectable both in character and number. In the olden time the sages of Egypt and of India cultivated it with enthusiasm, and it is supposed that it was from those countries that Pythagoras introduced it into Greece.
Aristotle treated largely of the Physiognomy, not only of man, but of the brute creation. After his time many Greek authors wrote treatises upon the subject, of which a collection was formed and published in 1780. Like Medicine and Astrology it was for a long time associated with divination, and they who followed it as a profession did not confine their scrutiny to the mental charac