Ir ever lot was prosperously cast,
If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, "Twas his, who, mourned by many, sleeps below.
The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,
The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles;
Light wit, that plays along the calm of life;
And stirs its languid surface into smiles;
Pure charity that comes not in a shower,
Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
But like the dew, with gradual silent power,
Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;
The happy grateful spirit that improves,
And brightens every gift by fortune given,
That wander where it will with those it loves,
Makes every place a home, and home a heaven.
All these were his.-Oh! thou who read'st this stone,
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky
Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,—
That ye, like him may live, like him may die.
Morning Chronicle.
SHE was a thing of morn-with the soft calm Of summer evening in her pensive air ;-Her smile came o'er the gazer's heart, like balm, To soothe away all sorrow save despair; Her radiant brow scarce wore a tint of care,A sunny lake where imaged you might trace, Of Hope and Memory all that's bright and fair, Where no rude breath of passion came to chase, Like winds from summer waves, its heaven from that sweet face.
As one who looks on landscapes beautiful,
Will feel their spirit all his soul pervade,-
Even as the heart grows stiller by the lull
Of falling waters, when the winds are laid,—
So he who gazed upon that heavenly maid
Imbibed a sweetness never felt before!
Oh! when with her through autumn fields I've stray-
A brighter hue the lingering wild flowers wore,
And sweeter was the song the small bird warbled o'er!
Then came Consumption with her languid moods,
Her soothing whispers, and her dreams that seek
To nurse themselves in silent solitudes ;-
She came with hectic glow, and wasted cheek,
And still the maiden pined more wan and weak,
Till her declining loveliness, each day,
Paled like the second Bow; yet would she speak
The words of Hope, even while she passed away
Amid the closing clouds,—and faded ray by ray!
She died in the bud of Being,-in the spring,
The time of flowers, and songs, and balmy air;
'Mid opening blossoms she was withering,-
But thus 'twas ever with the good and fair,
The loved of Heaven, ere yet the hand of Care
Upon the snowy brow hath set his seal,
Or Time's hoar frost come down to blanch the hair, They fade away and scape what others feel,— The pangs that pass not by-the wounds that never heal!
They laid her in the robes that wrap the dead,
So beautiful in rest ye scarce might deem,
From form so fair, the gentle spirit fled,
But only lulled in some Elysian dream;
And still the glory of a vanished beam,
The lingering halo of a parted ray,
Shed o'er her lovely sleep its latest gleam;
Like evening's rose-l
e-light when the summer day
Hath fled o'er sea and shore and faded far away!
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.
INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF TASSO.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MATTHIAS.
BY THE REV. ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.
HERE in these groves, of every Muse the haunt,
By life's rough tempests shattered and opprest,
Torquato from his toils aspired to rest,
And in their sheltering bowers, lone habitant,
Has found safe refuge. Here their magic quire,
Still, the sweet Sirens hold; and, by the side
Of echoing streams, the swan in stately pride
Nests 'mid the strings of the melodious lyre.
Then Stranger, whether from the icy pole-
Buoyant of heart-or where the blazing noon
Scorches swart Afric's race, thou sojourn'st here,
To this bright marble bow thy reverend soul,
And o'er the bust of Sebeth's glorious son
Strew pious flowers, and shed the holy tear.
Literary Museum.
SWEET Richmond! Like a woodland queen
Thou sittest on thy throne of green-
Smiling around, on bank and bower,
And grove, and mead, and tree, and flower;
As each presents its verdant gem
To wreathe thy rustic diadem;
While Thames' soft waves, with murmurs sweet,
Lie gently at thy flower-clad feet,
And still, to leave thy beauties slow,
Flow sparkling through the vale below;
As devious in its path, and wild,
As fits old Ocean's favourite child:
But how unlike the strenuous force
With which he runs his manlier course,
What time he rushes to the Ocean tide,
And on his ample stream his country's bulwarks ride!
Sweet Richmond! In thy terraced grove
How many a flattering tale of love,
And hope, and bliss and faith sincere,
Have stolen on Beauty's listening ear!
And many a warm, impassioned vow
Been breathed by lips-cold, silent now!
And many a matron, bowed with years,
And toils and griefs, and pains and fears,
With tearful eye remember still
Past hours of joy on Richmond Hill!
The Child, in life's sweet opening day,
Bounds o'er thy meads, in antic play,
As fresh and fair as Spring's gay morn
That breaks upon thy fairy lawn;—
And youth beholds thy prospects rise,
Luxuriant woods, and splendid skies;
And lovely as thy blooming bowers,
Hope fondly paints his future hours;
All sunshine, beauty, light and love,
As Summer's rosy noon in Richmond's flowery grove.
And Manhood marks the magic scene
With thoughtful eye and serious mien,
Nor sees unmoved thy verdant crown
Exchanged for wreath of Autumn brown;
But sighs to think the hour must come,
Shall wrap thy lovely brow in gloom,
When Winter brings its hours of ill,
Alike, to life and Richmond Hill!
Then, wandering forth at evening hour,
Old Age shall view thy lonely bower,-
The frozen stream-the leafless tree-
And sigh, to deem itself like thee!
Joy, pleasure, beauty, fled and gone!-
Cold, helpless, lifeless, sad and lone!
With one sole hope, that, Winter past,
A lovelier day shall dawn at last-
And hours of bliss, and glory, still
Shall beam on man, and Richmond Hill!
Morning Herald.
A DREAM of saddest beauty: one pale smile
Its light upon the blue-veined forehead shed,
As love had lingered there one little while,
Robbed the cheek of its colour, and then fled,-
Yet leaving a sweet twilight shade, which said
There had been sunshine once. Alas! the bloom,
The light, the hope, at Love's shrine offered!
Yet all in vain!-That altar is a tomb
Of broken hearts!-Its oracle but words of doom!
Literary Gazette.
L. E. L.
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