Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

At once, as thuuyh lic'd cause tu fear her,
He'd fly the spot, por t'er come uear lier,
But use ail na thods tu evade het,
And boast of what a fuul he'd made her.

At length tha se tricks of Mr. Pie,
Were kuuwa tu all buth far and nigh;
The maids, at all tbeir routs aud dances,
Distrusted eveu his trist aavances,
While widuas told him with a laugh,
“ You cannot catch ulu birds with chall."

Sickness and age (those mortal futs
To mag pit, and to human beaus,)
At length the chagrincu bird iuvade,
And cause his brilliant tipis tu fade;
And now his eyes began to fail,
He'd scarce a feather in his tail;
And weighbours oft were heard to cry,
“ Beau Magpie's end is surely nigh."' .

One night. when long-coutinued rains,
Had drenched and deluged woods and plains,
And not a star was seen on high,
To gem with hope the murky sky
Benumbed at once with age and cold,
His feeble feet forgot their hold,
And in the morning be was found,
Extended gasping on the ground.

There soon, alas! Death's fatal dart
Pierced the poor fluttering magpie's heart;
And not one female near his side,
He turned upou his back, and died.

MORAL.
Let mag piis, and let men, beware,
How they deceive the enamoured fair,
Or in return, they may expect,

Contempt in youth, in age neglect.
Newcastle upon Tyne.

J. PLAYER,

EPIGRAM,
On seeing a Portrait, the colours of which had faded.

THE art of painting surely was designed
The features of the dead to bring to mind;
But this vile painter has reversed the plan---

He makes the picture die before the inan!
Yebruary 7th, 1819.

M.

THE DEATH OF THE POET'S DOG,

AN ANECDOTE. THE sun was sinking to the western deep, The trees at parting with him seemed to weep; 11 Evening came slowly on, and shivering, Drew closer her grey mantle. Of the spring, The birds long musical no more did sing; The herds were housed in warm, protecting shed; The weary traveller stretched on sleep's rude bed; The last blue gleaming of still lingering Day Glanced down the vale, then faded fast away; The circling hills half sunny were, half shade And all but my full heart was deep-serene :--What eye could coldly gaze on such a scene! Deaf to the still small voice of thought, and dead To every natural feeling he must be, Who could behold so wild a night unmovedly.

The northern wind had hushed its fitful moan, A No sound disturbed the air; I felt alone, Yet, conscious of no ill, well known the track, On home and anxious friends I kept my back; And such wild, waking dreams, as unbroke pondering On many serious things, and lone night-wandering, Were like to gather, played about my brain, With much of pleasure in them, much of pain : Imagination huug so far o'er reason's brink, It was a horrible delight to think. Yet I a thousand calmer nights would give, If one dark, moody hour of that I might o'erlive.

It is not needful that man's outward sight Be fed with dainty visions of delight, If the unblinded soul can see aright: I have been cold at heart with sickly sadness, When summer was abroad in all her gladness; I And have been happy to the verge of madness When winter frowned on all, and the deep gloom Of nature was more horrid than a lomb, Mouth-closed and silent, and I upmewed Alive in it. Light-hearted on I trode, Wrapt in the dimmest darkness of blind night; My high exalted thoughts to me were light, And warmth, and company, and an unfearing might. And now the gathering web of night o'erspread Sweet nature's face--and all was dark, and dead, And dreary as sume ever quiet tomb. Hushed was the clacking mill; Day's busy hum Had sank to sleep; one only sound Was heard, chill dew-drops falling to the ground, And splashing as they fell from leaf to leaf--They fell not noiseless, like the tears of grief! Save that, 'twas silent as low-breathing fear, And full as breathless. Sudden on mine ear Came a faint sound---it rang like dying moav; Startled was I; “It was some tree did groan. Beneath the weight of crowding leaves and years!" That thought gave quiet to my gathering feais. Onward to where the sound arose, I past; The grass was moved as by a sudden blast, And then an animal's soft fout I felt Pawing my feet; fearless, aduwn I knelt, And groped with cautious hand to find it out; Much wondered I, and therefore searched about, Bnt nought could view or feel. Again I heard Some creature crawling o'er the rustling sward; Again it moaned---1 traced it out---'twas near; “ It is some shepherd's dog has laid him here, Lost by bis master, sure!” I searched again, It was a dog; he breathed with dying pain; Aud licked my hand as he would claim its care.. What could I do---there was no succour near! 1 bent me over him, and felt bis heart, That at each breathing seemed as it would part With life, as dear to that poor brute as man. “ Ah, gentle dog,” thought i, “thy little span Of life, its sports and joys, are measured now! Sorrow will wrinkle up thy master's brow, When he shall learn that thou, his faithful friend, Hast given up life!" And now his being's end Drew near; again he licked my trembling hand:--Why should I say I did my tears command ! His pulse grew quiet, and his slow, short breath Gave token of the quick approach of death:--6. "Tis past---poor biute, farewell! at morning's dawn My feet shall crush the dews of wood and lawn, To get thee buried !” Homeward then l'spod, And laid me down on an unquiet bed.

[graphic]

The bright blue eyes of morn looked round again; With eager steps I trode o'er hill and plain, And reached the spot * * * * * That dog, when I was boy, and sunk beneath the wave, Me suatched to life from a fast-closing grave. 1815.

W. CORNELIUS.

STANZAS BY A YOUNG LADY. :
WHEN spring returns to bless the year,
And nature's youthful charms appear,
If chance the health-restoring breeze,
Salute me through the fragrant trees,
How bave I wished that breezę to be,
For him who never thinks of me,
When burning summer's heats arise,
And languid nature drooping lies ;
If chance a passiog gale might bring,
The cooling sweetness of the spring;
How have I wished that gale to be,
For him who never thinks of me.
And when that heavenly orb of day,
Does autumn's beauteous tints display;
If chance the evening's radiant glow .
A grateful, tranquil joy bestow;
How have I wished that glow to be,
For him who never thinks of me.
When winter chills the dreary plains,
And binds the flood in chrystal chains,
If chance a transient sun-beam fall, -
And chear my humble cottage wall;
How have I wished that beam to be,
For him who never thinks of me. A. W.

EPIGRAM, TOTHER day as old Thraso on war was declaiming, And telling its wonders with voluble tongue, One thing was so monstrous, I stopt him, exclaiming, “ Dear Sir, recollect yourself, sure you are wrong." “ With these eyes I beheld it,” in heat replied Thraso, “ And, know sir, to lying I never was prone.”. " Believe it I must then,” said I, “ as you say so. Though I would not, hy heaven, had I seen't with my

own.”

M.

DREAMS.
« Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet,

When souls that love in fancy meet."
I dreamt that at eve a white mist arose,

Where the hedge row brambles twist';
I thought that my love was a sweet wild rose,

And I the silvery mist!
How sweetly I beaded her pale red charms

With many a diamond speck!
How softly I bent up my watery arms,

And hung round her beautiful neck!
Ob me! what a heavenly birth:

I revelled all night,

Till the morn came bright,
Then sauk at ber feet down again in the earth.
I dreamt that my love was a sweet wild tree,

All covered with purple bloom;
And I, methought, was an amorous bee,

That loved the rich perfume:
Large draughts of nectar I sat to sip

On a rose hud just below:
I breathed her breath, and I kist her lip,

And she was as chasté as snow.
Oh me! what a heavenly task!

For there I lay,

Till eve grew grey,
While she in the sun's bright gleam did bask.
Again- I was 'where the pále moon did line

The forest with silver light,
And I thought my love was a wild woodbine,

And I, a zephyr bright:
« Welcome,” said I, “where the bramble weaves

Around us a guard of thorns;"!
And sweetly I tangled myself in her leaves,
And blew on her red streaked horns;
To the music of which we led,
A gay dance about,

Till old night came out,
To rock us to sleep in his duský bed.

J. H.

W R .

J. Arliss, Printer, London.

« AnteriorContinuar »