O 'TIS a touching thing to make one weep!-
A tender infant with its curtained eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die,
With that unmoving countenance of sleep,-
As if its silent dream, serene and deep,
Had lined its slumbers with a still blue sky,—-
So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie,
With no more life than roses, just to keep
The blushes warm and the mild odorous breath:
Oh blossom-boy! so calm is thy repose!
So sweet a compromise of life and death!
"Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose,
For Memory to stain their inward leaf,
Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief!
Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deemed
No eyes would wake more beautiful than they;
Thy glossy cheeks so unimpassioned lay,
I loved their peacefulness, and never dreamed
Of dimples; for thy parted lips so seemed
I did not think a smile could sweetlier play,
Nor that so graceful life could charm away
Thy graceful death, till those blue eyes upbeamed!
Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drowned,
And roses bloom more rosily for joy;
And odorous silence ripens into sound,
And fingers move to mirth!-All-beauteous boy!
How dost thou waken into smiles, and prove,
If not more lovely, thou art more like Love!
London Magazine.
Days of my youth,
I wish not your recall;
Hours of my youth,
I'm content ye should fall;
Eyes of my youth,
You much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth,
Bathed in tears have you been;
Thoughts of my youth,
Ye have led me astray;
Strength of my youth,
Why lament your decay.
Days of my age,
Ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age,
Yet awhile ye can last;
Joys of my age,
In true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age,
Be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age,
Dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age,
Be ye fixed on your God.
The Mirror of Literature.
BY THE REV. H. H. MILMAN.
I WOULD not from the wise require
The lumber of their learned lore;
Nor would I from the rich desire
A single counter of their store.
For I have ease, and I have health,
And I have spirits, light as air;
And more than wisdom, more than wealth,-
A merry heart, that laughs at care.
Like other mortals of my kind,
I've struggled for dame Fortune's favour,
And sometimes have been half inclined
To rate her for her ill behaviour.
But life was short-I thought it folly
To lose its moments in despair;
So slipped aside from melancholy,
With merry heart, that laughed at care.
And once, 'tis true, two 'witching eyes
Surprised me in a luckless season,
Turned all my mirth to lonely sighs,
And quite subdued my better reason.
Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve,
And love you know's a reason fair,
And much improved, as I believe,
The merry heart, that laughed at care.
So now, from idle wishes clear,
I make the good I may not find; Adown the stream I gently steer,
And shift my sail with every wind.
And half by nature, half by reason,
Can still with pliant heart prepare,
The mind, attuned to every season,
The merry heart, that laughs at care.
Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream,
Ye social feelings of the mind,
Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam,
And let the rest good humour find.
Yes, let me hail and welcome give
To every joy my lot may share,
And pleased and pleasing let me live
With merry heart, that laughs at care.
I'VE roamed through many a weary round,
I've wandered east and west,
Pleasure in every clime I've found,
But sought in vain for rest.
While glory sighs for other spheres,
I feel that one's too wide,
And think the home, which love endears,
Worth all the world beside.
The needle thus too rudely moved,
Wanders unconscious where;
"Till having found the place it loved,
It trembling settles there.
THE palms fling down their shadows, and the air.
Is rich with breathings of the citron bloom;
All the so radiant children of the south,
The gold and silver jessamines, the rose
In crimson glory, there are gathered ;-sounds
Of music too from waterfalls, the hymn
The bees sing to the sweet flowers as they feed;
The earth seems in its infancy; the sky,
The fair blue sky, is glowing as the hopes
Of childish happiness: It is a land
Of blossoming and sunshine.-One is here
To whom the earth is colourless, the heaven
Clouded and cold;-his heart is far away;
The palms have not to him the majesty
Of his own land's green oaks; the roses here
Are not so sweet as those wild ones that grow
In his own valley; he would rather have
One pale blue violet than all the buds
That Indian suns have kissed; his heart is full
Of gentle recollections, and those thoughts,
Which can but hold communion with themselves,
The heart's best dreaming. When the wanderer
Calls up those tender memories, which are
So very sweet in absence, those dear links
That distance cannot sunder-come there not
Such visionings, young Evelin, o'er thy soul?
The dwelling of thy childhood, the dark hill
Above thy native valley, down whose side,
Like a swift arrow, shot the foaming stream,
The music of the lark, which every morn
Waked thy light slumber, and a fairy shape,
Whose starry eyes are far too bright for tears,
Though tears are in them, and whose coral lip
Wears still its spring-day smile? Although Farewell,"
That saddest of sad sounds, is lingering there,
Are not these present to thee? Evelin was
A soldier, and he left his home with all
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