How mutable is time!-the gorgeous brow Of Richb'rough is enwreathed with ivy now; [deep, No trumpet, save the last, with thunder Shall ever break its warriors' dreamless sleep, Nor song of triumph charm the listless ear, Unless it rolls from an immortal sphere! Thus will it be-the plough succeeds the sword, And nature's early quiet is restored. Lo! here the ivy, like a mourner crawls Around the mouldering fragment of these walls; The turf is rich with flow'rs; the lark has found His summer-home upon the balmy ground; And often, from the whispering field of [morn. corn, He soars with rapturous song to greet the The river flows beneath-its liquid tone Breathes a sweet cadence to the heart un known; And o'er the tufted grass its current pours, Where Cæsar's cohorts won the British shores ! REFLECTIONS ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. WRITTEN ON THE ANNIVERSARY BIRTH-DAY (NOV. 26th.) How oft with every kindly sentiment Hath this once festive day been welcom'd here! Only one year has passed since these loved haunts [eye Were vocal with our mirth; when every Looked pleasure-and each voice, to joy attuned, Breathed the fond fervent wish of health and joy. Hope her gay chaplet wove to deck the brow Of heartfelt peace, and crown the present scene. In fond anticipation brightly gleamed Across our minds the pleasing dreams of bliss; While fancy keen, in bright perspective, shewed The joyful prospect of domestic bliss. November then could charm: for pleasure's ray Unclouded shone.-Ah! why is gladness fled? [erst Earth wears not now a garb less fair than She wore, when thus the shades of autumn low'red: Nought here seems changed; save that each once loved form, And countenance, where cheerfulness then smiled, Now bear, though still serene, the marks of grief. The kindred circle shews a chilling void; Affection's chain one treasured link has lost; One loved inhabitant of friendship's home Now sleeps with the cold and silent grave. Within how short a space has been consigned 'To the cold dust-"all that could die" of her Whom living we esteemed; whom dead, deplore! Therefore is gladness fled.-Let nature have Her just, her reasonable tribute. Lost on earth The friend-the valued friend-whom but to know Most truly was to love. Her's was a heart Kind, generous, liberal, which at virtue's call The path of duty trod. Her's too a mind Well disciplined, informed, sincere, and pure, Imbued with the great truths her Saviour taught. Each intellectual gift, that can exalt The human mind, kind Heaven on her bestowed; While those embellishments, which fascinate, Their charms imparted to exalt her worth. wept O'er Lazarus' toinb. The privilege to weep Kind Heaven permits the woe-fraught breast to share: |