Flitting to each bloomy spray;
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest :-
This thy present happy lot,
This, in time, will be forgot:
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy Time prepares;

And thou shalt in thy daughter see

This picture, once, resembled thee.

Ambrose Philips.

CCXCII.

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA.

O, TALK not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, tho' ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled!
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

O, FAME! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When its spark led o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

Lord Byron.

CCXCIII.

TO-MORROW.

IN the downhill of life when I find I'm declining,
May my fate no less fortunate be,

Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow;

And, blythe as the lark that each day hails the dawn,
Look forward with hope to To-morrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade, too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;

And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade, too, With a barn for the use of the flail:

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a man wants to borrow,

I'll envy no nabob, his riches or fame,

Or what honours may wait him To-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured, by a neighbouring hill ;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly,
By the sound of a murmuring rill:

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,

With my friends let me share what to-day may afford,
And let them spread the table To-morrow.

And when I, at last, must throw off this frail covering,
Which I've worn for threescore years and ten,

On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again;

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow, As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day, May become Everlasting To-morrow.

John Collins.

CCXCIV.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel shall sing

In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees,

Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

Samuel Rogers.

CCXCV.

THE POPLAR FIELD.

THE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene, where his melody charm'd me before,
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything_can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I sec,
Have a being less durable even than he.

CCXCVI.

William Cowper.

I KNEW by the smoke, that so gracefully curl'd
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, "if there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that was humble might hope for it here!"

It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And, "here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd,
"With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips,
Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine!

Thomas Moore.

CCXCVII.

AN ITALIAN SONG.

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ringdove builds and murmurs there;

Close to my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,

Shall bind me to my native vale.

CCXCVIII.

Samuel Rogers.

SOMETHING CHILDISH BUT VERY NATURAL

IF I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

I'm always with you in my sleep,

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:
For tho' my sleep be gone,

Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

Samuel T. Coleridge.

CCXCIX.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

To Lady Throckmorton.

MARIA! I have every good

For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhyme.