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THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past

There liv'd a man—and who was he? Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee!

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown, His name hath perish'd from the earth,

This truth survives alone

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,

Alternate triumph'd in his breast, His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear !

Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,

The changing spirits' rise and fall, We know that these were felt by him,

For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd—but his pangs are o'er,

Enjoy'd—but his delights are fled, Had friends—his friends are now no more,

And foes his foes are dead.

He loved—but whom he lov'd, the grave

Hath lost in its unconscious womb; O she was fair ļ but nought could save

Her beauty from the tomb.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Ere while his portion, life and light,

To him exist-in vain.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

93

He saw whatever thou hast seen,

Encounter'd all that troubles thee,
He was—whatever thou hast been,

He is what thou shalt be!

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye

That once their shade and glory threw,
Have left, in yonder silent sky,

No vestige where they flew !

The annals of the human race,

Their ruin since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace,
Than this-THERE LIV'D A MAN.

Montgomery.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear,
To waft thy waste perfume !
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow,

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song,
And sweet the strain shall be, and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flow'r, who lov'st to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,

And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me,
Beneath the lowly alder tree,

94

SUNSET IN GREECE.

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,

And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies !
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lowly shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead :
My grave shall be in

yon Where, as I lie by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

Henry Kirke White.

lone spot,

SUNSET IN GREECE.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun; Not as in northern climes obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light! O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle, The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! Their azure arches through the long expanse More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven; Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

SUNSET IN GREECE.

95

On such an eve his palest beam he cast,
When— Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last.
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet—not yet—Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes.
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phæbus never frown'd before,
But ere he sank below Cithæron's head,
The

cup of woe was quaff’d—the spirit fled; The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or flyWho lived and died as none can live or die!

But lol from high Hymettus to the plain,
The

queen of night asserts her silent reign.
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeanis play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And, bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The
groves

of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,
And, dun and sombre mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye-
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.

Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown—where gentler ocean seems to smile.

Byron.

THE COUNTRY FELLOWS AND THE ASS.

A COUNTRY fellow and his son, they tell
In modern fables, had an ass to sell :
For this intent, they turned it out to play,
And fed so well, that by the destined day,
They brought the creature into sleek repair,
And drove it gently to a neighbouring fair.
As they were jogging on, a rural class
Was heard to say, “Look! look there, at that ass !
And those two blockheads trudging on each side,
That have not, either of 'em, sense to ride ;
Asses all three !" And thus the country folks
On man and boy began to cut their jokes.
Th' old fellow minded nothing that they said,
But every word stuck in the young one's head;
And thus began their comment thereupon:
“ Ne'er heed 'em, lad." “Nay, father, do get on."
“ Not I, indeed.” “Why then let me, I pray.'
“ Well do; and see what prating tongues will say."
The boy was mounted; and they had not got
Much further on, before another knot,
Just as the ass was pacing by, pad, pad,
Cried, “O! that lazy booby of a lad!
How unconcernedly the gaping brute
Lets the poor aged fellow walk afoot."
Down came the son on hearing this account,
And begged, and prayed, and made his father mount:
Till a third party on a further stretch,
“See, see !” exclaimed, “ that old hard-hearted wretch;
How like a justice there he sits, or squire,
While the poor lad keeps wading through the mire."
“Stop," cried the lad, still vexed in deeper mind,

Stop, father, stop; let me get on behind."

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