SWEET bud, that by and by shall be a flower;
Young star, that just hath broken on our eye;
Pure spring, ere long to grow a stream of power;
First dawn of Hope, that soon shall flame out high
Into the mid arch of the golden sky;
I love, young fawn, to see thee sport; and yet
Such contemplation breeds but vain regret.
Let the proud mother smile to see thy ways,
And once again forget herself in thee ;-
Let the proud father eke the mother's praise,
But, graver, place thee fondly on his knee,
And vainly prophecy what thou shalt be-
Pleased with the tongueless eloquence, that lies
Still silent, in thy clear blue laughing eyes.
Let them enjoy-whilst yet they can enjoy ;
And, infant son of Time, do thou smile on,
Deem not for aye to be the favourite boy;
Take what thou can'st, or ere thy time is gone,
For still the darling is the youngest son;
And thou shalt quickly sorrow sore to see
Another, younger still, supplanting thee.
Though many a high presage be cast upon thee,-
Though many a mouth be diligent to praise thee,—
Though Beauty pine until that she hath won thee,-
Though worship, wheresoe'er thou goest, delays thee,--
Though Fate and Fortune emulate to raise thee,-
Yet all the thronging honours that surround thee
Shall not avail thee, since that Care hath found thee.
Time's train is lacqueyed still by weariness;
What boots the crownlet of o'er-flattered gold,
Or gemmed Tiara, if they cannot bless
Or soothe the aching brows that they enfold?
What boots it to wax honourably old,
If 'tis the end of every hope and vow,
To yearn to be again as thou art now!
Oh! 'tis a thriftless bargain of a life,
To live to know that bliss is but pretence-
That gaining nothing in this earthly strife,
We only toil to forfeit innocence !-
The profit nothing, but remorse the expense!
Or that fond grief, that wearies of its state,
And pines for toys and gauds worn out of date.
Thou art an old pretender, gray-beard Age;
Thou boasted much, and yet art but a cheat; And those who toil upon thy pilgrimage,
Would turn again with no unwilling feet :Yea, dewy clouds to evening are most meet. If smiles be Youth's, sure tears are Age's sign, As suns that rise in smiles, in tears decline. Blackwood's Magazine.
ON AN OLD ENGRAVING OF A NUN.
"Tis a most wondrous mockery of life!
A dirty scroll, and lined with dirtier ink,
Is all I gaze upon; and yet how rife
With beauty and devotion! One might drink
From those meek, pensive lips, and drooping eyes
Love that would lift a demon to the skies,
Or plant an Eden on Destruction's brink!
Sure, on her saintly smile we need but look
To read the entrancing promise of that Book,
Which in one hand she clasps; and dare we think
Of virgin youth and loveliness, and bliss
Too heavenly for a world so fallen as this,—
But no-still, still be the fair fingers prest
Upon those hallowed folds that curtain her pure breast.
LORD BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.
Missolonghi, January 22, 1824.
"On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year.” ́
"Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move; Yet though I cannot be beloved,
My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze:-
A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
Th' exalted portion of the pain,
And power of love, I cannot share;
But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus-it is not here
Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now, Where glory seals the hero's bier,
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.
Awake! not Greece-she is awake! Awake, my spirit,-think through whom My life-blood tracks its parent lake
And then strike home!
Tread all reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood-unto thee,
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be!
If thou regret'st thy youth-why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here-up to the field, and give
Seek out-less often sought than found—
A soldier's grave, for thee the best,
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
Look on this brow!-the laurel wreath
Beamed on it, like a wreath of fire;
For passion gave the living breath,
That shook the chords of Sappho's lyre!
Look on this brow!-the lowest slave,
The veriest wretch of want and care,
Might shudder at the lot that gave
Her genius, glory and despair.
For, from these lips were uttered sighs,
That, more than fever, scorched the frame;
And tears were rained from these bright eyes,
That from the heart, like life-blood, came,
She loved!-she felt the lightning-gleam,
That keenest strikes the loftiest mind;
Life quenched in one ecstatic dream,
The world a waste before-behind.
And she had hope-the treacherous hope,
The last deep poison of the bowl,
That makes us drain it, drop by drop,
Nor lose one misery of soul.
Then all gave way-mind, passion, pride!
She cast one weeping glance above,
And buried in her bed, the tide,
The whole concentred strife of Love!
WRITTEN ON THE FIRST VIEW OF FONTHILL ABBEY.
BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.
THE mighty master waved his wand, and lo!
On the astonished eye the glorious show
Burst like a vision! Spirit of the place!
Has the Arabian wizard with his mace
Smitten the barren downs, far onward spread,
And bade the enchanted palace rise instead?
Bade the dark woods their solemn shades extend,
High to the clouds yon spiry tower ascend?
And starting from th' umbrageous avenue
Spread the rich pile, magnificent, to view?
Enter!-From the arched portal look again
Back, on the lessening woods and distant plain!
Ascend the steps!-The high and fretted roof
Is woven by some elfin hand aloof;
Whilst from the painted window's long array
A mellow light is shed as not of day.
How gorgeous all!-O never may the spell
Be broken, that arrayed those radiant forms so well!
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