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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 f*e~j&°^^
 
 MISCHIEF 
 
 OF THE MUSES
 
 MISCHIEF 
 
 OF THE MUSES 
 
 " Clev«r work, sir! — would get up prodigiously well, — 
 Its only defect is — it never would sell !" 
 
 Twopenny Post Bag. 
 
 " When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,' 
 They make you dread that they '11 recite them too." 
 
 Don Juan. 
 
 LONDON : 
 DAVID BOGUE, 86 FLEET STREET. 
 
 MDcccxr.vn.
 
 LONDON: 
 DAVID BOGUK, PRINTER, FLEET STREET.
 
 3??/ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 On Autumn . . . . . . 1 
 
 Sunset . . . . . . . . 4 
 
 Translation from Schiller . . . . . .6 
 
 Ditto, ditto . . . . . . . 1 
 
 To 9 
 
 On seeing the first Swallow . . . . 11 
 
 The Passing Thought . . . . . .13 
 
 The Pages of Life . . . . . ..14 
 
 On Miles, a Country Coachman . . . . .15 
 
 Marriage a la mode Antique . . . . . 16 
 
 Written (by request) on Sherwood Forest . . . .31 
 
 On some Faded Flowers . . . . . . 32 
 
 Separation . . . . . . . 3.'3 
 
 A Summer's Morning . . . . . 34 
 
 To a Wave rolling on the Beach . . . . .30 
 
 Wanted a Seal in Parliament, 1839 . . . . . 38 
 
 The Huma . . . . . .11 
 
 • > 
 
 social
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Written in an Album . . . . . .43 
 
 Ditto, ditto . . . • • . . 44 
 
 0<le to Mary, by one of the oldest, and not the least ardent of her 
 
 Admirers . . . . . . .45 
 
 Epitaph on "Chartist," a Horse well known with the Holderness 
 
 Hounds . . . . . . . 48 
 
 L' Insouciant© . . . . . . .49 
 
 Her Maiden Name . . . . . . . 52 
 
 On the Death of a Young Lady . . . . .55 
 
 On the Ivy . . . . . . . 58 
 
 To a Lady on her Picture . . . . . .60 
 
 On the New Year . . . . . . . 61 
 
 The Returning Smile . . . . . .63 
 
 The Fairer Flower . . . . . . . 64 
 
 Love a Flower . . . . . . .65
 
 ON AUTUMN. 
 
 And summer then is gone — and thou art here, 
 Thou sure foreteller of a winter near. 
 October, thou art come ! thy fading leaf 
 In sooth it speaks in sadness, not in grief; 
 And more I love it than the rich bouquet, 
 And livery green, and bright of summer gay : 
 For were it not that other thoughts will steal 
 And mingle them with those we fain would feel- 
 Did not thy features show what follows thee, 
 We all with passing joy should Autumn see. 
 Thy foliage green and gilded I have seen, 
 As beautiful as when t' was only green ; 
 But, ah ! how treacherous is that golden streak, 
 Like hectic beauty on a wasted cheek— 
 
 B
 
 ON AUTUMN. 
 
 Too sure a sign t'will speedily decay, 
 
 And quit the barren bough and fall away. 
 
 Delicious breeze ! how freely does it fly, 
 
 Leaving around a blue, unbroken sky, 
 
 So sharp, refreshing, cold, and clear, but mild. 
 
 It brings no heat along, nor tempest wild, 
 
 But frost is in it. Ah ! I go, and then, 
 
 Thou well may st say, stern winter comes again. 
 
 The month, where summer's latest lino'erinss die, 
 
 And winter's harbinger of beauty I. 
 
 And summer fruits are gone, and flow'rets fair ! 
 
 And half the forest's massy boughs are bare ; 
 
 The fields are cleared, and not a shock remains 
 
 To tell of summer on the gathered plains. 
 
 The swallow, latest of the late that staid, 
 
 But yesterday his parting frolic made, 
 
 Along the brook in which he dipped his wing 
 
 At the glad burst of nature into spring — 
 
 And fickle now, to day perchance is gone, 
 
 Leaving us here to winter it alone. 
 
 Ah bird ! thou innocently play'st the part 
 
 Of man's deceitful, dark, and changeful heart, 
 
 Who seems a friend if fickle fortune smile, 
 
 And is your fortune's friend, not yours the while.
 
 ON AUTUMN. 
 
 And summer skies are gone, but clear and bright 
 October's sky, tho' sooner hid by night — 
 And tho' stern winter must usurp the reign 
 Ere summer skies can visit us again, 
 Yet all is fair and glad, as handing down 
 The smile of summer on to winter's frown — 
 And cheering us with prospects of the past, 
 For what we know must surely come at last. 
 Like to the mellow Autumn of a life, 
 With youth's hot folly, and adventure rife, 
 When calmly looking thro' the vale of years 
 He views his course alike with smiles and fears — 
 (Smiles that the happy retrospect have won, 
 And tears to find how soon his youth is gone)- 
 The mortal, gliding swiftly down the tide 
 Of time, may glance with pleasurable pride 
 Back to his youth, nor end his lengthened days 
 Unblessed by pity, nor unknown to praise.
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 When the red sun from Heaven declines, 
 And o' er the west extends his ray, 
 
 The mellower light with which he shines 
 Has lost the fervent heat of day. 
 
 T'was glorious in his noontide glow, 
 But this to enjoy is to endure ; 
 
 And sweet the cooling breezes blow, 
 
 And sweet the birds their vespers pour. 
 
 Nature o'ercome sinks gladly down — 
 And as his last beams tinge the tide, 
 
 His parting lustre seems to crown 
 
 The splendours of his morning pride.
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 *«*» 
 
 Thus love's wild passion, to its end, 
 
 By turns will sink, by turns will rise, 
 
 Yet will its calmer moments lend 
 A charm to every lover's eyes ! 
 
 And only when the sun has set, 
 
 And love has ta'en his short-lived flight, 
 It brings a feeling of regret — 
 
 To-morrow may not shine so bright. 
 

 
 TRANSLATION FROM SCHILLER. 
 
 The honest soul, unfledged and young, 
 
 Delights, in joyous confidence, 
 
 To think the world's false heart and tongue 
 
 Teem with its own exalted sense ; 
 
 And nobly aids that cause alone, 
 
 Which virtue unabashed can own. 
 
 Yet, ah ! the world, severe and cold, 
 
 Had he foreknown, he Avould have sought 
 
 Himself within himself t' enfold, 
 
 Nor share with busy worldlings aught ; 
 
 On all things the enthusiast 
 
 With stoicism looks at last. 
 
 Truth's clearest rays not oft impart 
 Warmth to their object ; happy they 
 Whose sweet simplicity of heart 
 For prudence faded not away ! 
 Join with discretion feeling, then 
 Your's is the happiest lot of men.
 
 TRANSLATION FROM SCHILLER. 
 
 The voice of Spring has called you forth, 
 
 Sweet flowers, that 'mid the verdure smile, 
 By nature scattered o'er the earth, 
 
 To joy and gladness to beguile. 
 Yet tho' she loves you, loves you best, 
 
 And you appear so gaily drest 
 With eveiy bright and varied hue, 
 
 Still you may droop, and still complain 
 That without souls you must remain, 
 
 And dark within tho' fair to view. 
 
 And birds can one another love, 
 
 Their songs of love you hear them sing, 
 
 And insects too that gaily move 
 
 And round you sport on amorous wing, 
 
 Did not Dione's daughter fair 
 
 A garland of your cups prepare,
 
 TRANSLATION FROM SCHILLER. 
 
 Which should love's pillow worthiest prove ? 
 
 Sweet, ones yet mourn — she has not given 
 To you the noblest gift of heaven — 
 
 To vmi it is not given to love ! 
 
 But from Nannette, and her sweet eyes, 
 
 (Such is her mother's harsh decree,) 
 Should I be banished, I shall prize 
 
 The flowers that tender speak for me. 
 Language and life you shall express, 
 
 And all a soul can e'er possess — 
 Passion invests you with my own — 
 
 And in your consecrated leaves 
 Cupid's divinity receives, 
 
 Wherever Cupid's kingdom spreads, a throne.
 
 TO 
 
 Why when we met could I not part, 
 Like some, perchance, unhurt at heart, 
 And with a smile, and not a sigh, 
 All heedless bid thy charms good bye ? 
 Then had I seen and felt alone 
 The admiration all must own ; 
 Then had I nought left to recover, 
 Those happy, fleeting moments over ; 
 Or if your heart, that treacherous prize. 
 Had but the softness of your eyes, 
 Or if your lips' deceitful play 
 Meant only what they seem to saj 
 And all I thought I might believe 
 Then were no need that I should grieve.
 
 Id TO 
 
 But, ah ! the light that thro' the gloom 
 
 Lures on the traveller to the tomb, 
 
 Is but an emblem, and too true, 
 
 Of one more dangerous light — of you. 
 
 To follow, be it near or far, 
 
 The vision of a heavenly star ; 
 
 To feel that all of hope is there, 
 
 When it departs to be despair ; 
 
 And gaze with rapture as it throws 
 
 A gleam o'er darkness and o'er woes, 
 
 Till painful watch and wandering past, 
 
 To find the meteor flies at last — 
 
 This has been mine ! and though no more 
 
 Hope reassures me as before, 
 
 Yet still the spell first o'er me thrown 
 
 Seems stronger fascination grown. 
 
 Tho' Truth is known, be what it will, 
 
 Delusion's charms are charming still ; 
 
 And thus a slave, though strange it be, 
 
 I would not, if I could, be free.
 
 ON SEEING THE FIRST SWALLOW. 
 
 I walked upon a bank, where fresh and green 
 
 The young grass sparkled in the dew 
 Of morninsr tide ; the violet there was seen 
 
 Peering, unconscious that its tiny blue 
 And fragrant head was aught indeed but mean ; 
 
 The primrose spreads its leaf upon the stem, 
 .IXnd by the side of this so sweet a bed 
 
 Ean swift the bubbling rill, and dashed on them 
 Often its pearly drops, and thus I said — 
 
 This speaks of Spring, but yet Spring is not this 
 Alone ; something there is I do not see, 
 
 Or think, or hear. The lake receives the kiss 
 Of the sun's radiant beam, the toiling bee 
 
 Roves o'er this bank of beauty, the soft wind 
 Fans the chilled earth, and waves with gentle breath 
 
 The young green leaves, and still, as if to bind 
 My fancy down, the lark proclaims the death 
 
 Of Winter — but this comprehends not Spring.
 
 L2 ON SEEING THE FIRST SWALLOW. 
 
 Suddenly shot before my startled eye 
 
 A buoyant thing, almost of air, with wing 
 
 Of ecstacy. It passed, and thus said I- — 
 
 Ah! swallow, always loved, now doubly dear, 
 
 Thou hast removed the painful thought from me 
 That aught was wanting ; nature wanted thee, 
 
 And I, and all, to say that Spring was here.
 
 THE PASSING THOUGHT. 
 
 My pulse is swift, my hand is strong, 
 
 My heart and hopes are high ; 
 None seem so gay to glide along 
 
 Life's flowery path as I : 
 None have in meditation sad and lone 
 
 Cast fewer glances on the moments gone — 
 Yet sadness, too, I sometimes feel, 
 And sometimes thoughts upon me steal 
 
 That o'er the auburn head 
 Old Time shall wave his silver wings, 
 And Winter's days shall follow Spring's, 
 
 And I must soon be dead. 
 As I of others, they will say of me, 
 
 " And is he dead? e'en so our end must b<
 
 THE PAGES OF LIFE. 
 
 The leaves of a book and of life are the same ; 
 
 The first one has only a date and a name; 
 
 Then follows the preface— 't is passed with a glance, 
 
 For people are always in haste to advance ; 
 
 And after each chapter, each canto, each scene, 
 
 With pleasure or pain, as it haps to have been, 
 
 Each action or sentiment, many or few, 
 
 Each character, passion, by turns is gone thro' ; 
 
 The life and the volume, these passages past, 
 
 Are both to ajinis conducted at last.
 
 ON MILES, A COUNTRY COACHMAN. 
 
 'T is Miles that drives the very slowest coach 
 That ever was a country town's reproach, 
 And, it must strike all persons who, like me, 
 , ^„ Delight to see a name and trade agree, 
 His is the most appropriate of styles, 
 For when he drives the road seems Miles and Miles.
 
 MARRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 
 
 " A frugal swain, 
 
 Whose constant care was to increase his store, 
 And keep his only son, myself, at home." 
 
 Douglas. 
 
 When Abraham had lived almost too long, 
 
 When by his righteous deeds, if none were wrong, 
 
 He had grown vastly rich, and lent his name 
 
 Security of patriarchal fame ; 
 
 And had become a widower, and in short 
 
 Determined on it, and relinquished Port, 
 
 Soon after Sarah's death, whose loss was more 
 
 Than he had gained in all his life before, 
 
 (How soon a wedding-ring Keturah wore ;) 
 
 When moping was his pastime, and his cares 
 
 Were given up to settling his affairs ; 
 
 It struck him, wanting something to recruit him, 
 
 The character of grandpapa would suit him — 
 
 His son must marry, but he did not choose 
 
 To any body but among the Jews,
 
 MABRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE, 17 
 
 Just as all fathers say — so that 's no news. 
 But Canaanite connexions were so bad, 
 Really no fitting match was to be had. 
 Thus reasoned he, but never told his son ; 
 That was no use until the thing was done. 
 So with the pros and cons determined well 
 In Ins own mind, he rose and rang the bell. 
 His servant came, in fact he was his steward, 
 Who knew the tenants in their rents to screw hard, 
 And who, from managing his master's pelf, 
 Had now begun to manage him himself. 
 To him then Abraham opened all his plans, 
 '% And to poor Isaac's ear preferred his man's. 
 According to a custom now gone by, 
 He made him put his hand upon his thigh, 
 And swear he would set out to seek and find 
 A wife to his, if not to Isaac's mind. 
 His real name is not of import vital, 
 He took O'Grady for his travelling title. 
 This seems, tho' neither I would fain disparage, 
 Much to resemble the Montpensier marriage — 
 Quickly and quietly devised and done, 
 Before the world knew what was going on ; 
 The only difference that I can descry 
 
 J)
 
 L8 MAKRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 
 
 Between the schemes is this one, by the bye, 
 
 That Abraham gave a carte blanche to O'Grady, 
 
 While the French patriarch picked out the lady. 
 
 Suppose with the least possible delay 
 
 Our envoy is despatched and on his way. 
 
 A retinue he takes his master's rank 
 
 To suit, and his procession flankies flank 
 
 A string of camels about half a score, 
 
 Which were worth something with their furniture. 
 
 And all that taste and fashion to display meant, 
 
 Overland trunks and many a change of raiment. 
 
 Need we detail his journeyings thro' the sand, 
 
 Or all the toilings of that little band ? 
 
 What were all minor troubles when in view 
 
 An end so coveted and likely too ! 
 
 Suffice to say they reached the country side 
 
 From which they came to carry off the pride — 
 
 The maid that orange flowers shall soon have decked, 
 
 Tho' the unknown, not less the bride elect. 
 
 It was at evening, when the setting sun 
 
 Retires, as from a quarrel lately done, 
 
 Cooler and leaving you to cool — his last 
 
 And kindliest look along the plains he cast, 
 
 When like a speck beneath the ethereal vault 
 
 A town appeared. O'Grady called a halt.
 
 MARRIAGE A I. A MODE ANTIQUE. 19 
 
 A well was at the outskirts of the town, 
 And here he made the camels to kneel known, 
 Because he knew the city girls at e'en, 
 A gay and giggling throng, might here be seen, 
 Coming the sweets from out its depths to draw ; 
 And if 't is now a fashionable spa, 
 And like some other wells has note and name, 
 No doubt they in a morning do the same. 
 Thinking how with his mission it would fare, 
 How to make his advances, when and where, 
 He came to fihis resolve, one rather witty, 
 To accost the first approaching from the city — 
 ; That is, providing she was young and pretty. 
 Could Isaac now before this salutation 
 Have praised, or hinted his disapprobation, 
 One would have thought it fair, at least I know 
 I should, that he 'd the chance of doing so, 
 And had I been O'Grady, should have worse 
 Liked to choose any man a wife than horse. 
 Nothing however daunted, he surveyed 
 With all his eyes the first and foremost maid, 
 Who, lucky girl ! came on to fill her pitcher, 
 Without a thought of how it would enrich her, 
 And most unconsciously was trotted out. 
 She was indeed a pretty thing no doubt,
 
 20 MARRIAGE A T.A MODE ANTIQUE. 
 
 Bright and black eyes and curls, and rosy lips. 
 
 Pale cheeks — but what a figure as she trips ! 
 
 Further minute description we forego ; 
 
 She was Rebecca — not in Ivanhoe, 
 
 But just exactly like her, quite the same 
 
 In age, appearance, country, and in name. 
 
 She came to fill her pitcher, as I said, 
 
 Which first of all to conversation led ; 
 
 Most probably when offering his assistance, 
 
 And not being told at first to keep his distance, 
 
 O'Grady hinted he was thirsty too, 
 
 And asked to drink, expecting "pray, sir, do!" — 
 
 This answer she, as down her pitcher glides, 
 
 Gently accords, and adds to it besides 
 
 Her wish to see the weary camels drink, 
 
 For there they knelt impatient at the brink. 
 
 Thus in the earliest ages complaisance 
 
 Was studied, as in England and in France — 
 
 And here we see, out of a great variety, 
 
 An instance of its blessings in society. 
 
 " She stooped to conquer" when above the brim 
 
 Of the dark desert well she leant for him ; 
 
 And his success old Caesar's thought supplied, 
 
 With " veni, vidi, vici" cut and dried.
 
 MAR a ■■' E \ I,\ MODE ANTIQUE. '.'I 
 
 So charming was her ready acquiescence, 
 O'Grady instantly produced his presents, 
 Which, as the custom of the East enjoined, 
 Were ne'er on such occasions left behind — 
 Bracelets and ear-rings (such as you '11 survey 
 Not e'en at Hunt and Roskell's every day), 
 A pair of each before her eyes he placed, 
 Of value great, and in the newest taste ; 
 These charmed her quite as much, for tho' we boast 
 " Beauty when unadorned adorned the most," 
 Yet ladies ne\tr think so all the while, 
 And so Rebecca took them with a smile. 
 The ice thus broken, soon as they 're upon it 
 The following dialogue took place — pray con it : 
 
 R. " Have you come far ? " 
 
 0' G. " I have, and must go back 
 Before the sand has lost my camel's track." 
 
 R. " O then, you 've got despatches, I suppose, 
 Or are an embassy from friends or foes ? " 
 
 O' G. " Faith ! yes, I 'm on an embassy from Cupid" — 
 
 R. "Who's he?" 
 
 O'G. " Not know? you cannot be so stupid !" 
 
 R. " I do n't ; such knowledge none to me imparts. 
 Is he a king ?* :
 
 '-"-' MARRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 
 
 O'G. "Yes, he's the King of Hearts." 
 
 R. " I m not enquiring what 's your business here 
 But who is it you 're wanting ?" 
 
 0' G. " You, my dear : 
 
 That is, I was to make out here the belle, 
 And you 're the lady, as your glass must tell ; 
 The well would say so — truth lies in a well — 
 No, do n't look at the well, but look at me. 
 I know a nice young man" — 
 
 R- " And, let me see, 
 
 I know two dozen at the very least, 
 And danced with half of them at our last feast. 
 
 G'G. "Perhaps, then — ah ! perhaps one happier swain 
 Loves you, and is by you beloved again" — 
 
 R. " Such stuff! they 're not in love because they 
 chat; 
 They think too much about themselves for that." 
 
 O'G. "Then only hear; he whom your servant 
 mentions 
 Has none but the most honourable intentions ; 
 He 's quite prepared to be in love — is young, 
 Handsome, and active, and his purse is long ; 
 The girls at home are too provincial — rather, 
 He cannot please himself, nor yet his father ;
 
 MARRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. i.\ 
 
 And so, with all this cavalcade I 'm come 
 To choose him here a bride, and bring her home. 
 Now might I venture to persuade" — 
 R. " O la ! 
 
 Do n't pray — not me — you 'd better ask papa." 
 
 0' G. " Why so I would, but do n't know where to 
 
 find him." 
 R. " O well, but for the present never mind him. 
 You must all need refreshment, so come in ; 
 Our house is near — yes, nearer than the inn." 
 
 O'G. "Thank you : but tell me who does me such 
 honour ; 
 The blessing of a hungry man be on her !" 
 
 Rebecca told her father's name, her own, 
 
 And where they lived, and so they gained the town. 
 
 The hospitality of modern times, 
 I fear, is as degenerate as its rhymes ; 
 Strangers were sure (and more so in the Easl ) 
 ( )f entertainment both for man and beast ; 
 And every where were taken in, they say — 
 
 they are noic, but in a different way. 
 The household which O'Grrady'a introduced to, 
 Tlic.-c good old customs had of course been used t<>.
 
 2 1 MARRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 
 
 And his reception there was (so to speak) 
 
 As it' he 'd been expected for a week ; 
 
 Rather more marked, perhaps, that the young lady 
 
 Had told them what his errand was already. 
 
 The father motioned him his easy chair, 
 
 You 'd designate it with a courtier's air ; 
 
 The mother, turbaned, frilled, and furbelowed, 
 
 In all humility of stiffness bowed ; 
 
 The son led first the camels to the stall, 
 
 Then helped him to remove his travelling shawl ; 
 
 And all, with arguments he could not blink, 
 
 Pressed him in kindest terms to eat and drink. 
 
 But this he steadily refused to do, 
 
 Till he had told them all his story through ; 
 
 Which he soon did — though not just word for word 
 
 To the same purport as Rebecca heard — 
 
 Demanding the surrender in due form 
 
 Of the fair fortress he had ta'en by storm. 
 
 They scarce knew what to say, but on reflection, 
 
 As they could find no fault with the connection, 
 
 They thought it best, and so perhaps it was, 
 
 With a good offer, not to let it pass. 
 
 And therefore wishing they were more acquainted, 
 
 They made him understand that they consented.
 
 MARRIAGE \ LA MODE ANTIQUE. 25 
 
 The matter thus concluded to his mind, 
 
 L'Envoy remembered that he had not dined, 
 
 And made a famous meal just what you please on — 
 
 Say all the delicacies of the season. 
 
 Then feeling rather tired, and intending 
 
 His way betimes to-morrow to be wending, 
 
 He took his candle, and with most polite 
 
 Expressions wished the family good night. 
 
 Now what an hour had wrought, judge ye who read, 
 
 And whether 't was not magical indeed ! 
 
 The change surpassed (that well since he drew near) 
 
 The quick reverses known to the Corsair. 
 
 One hour beheld him since that point he gained 
 
 Admiring, questioning, and all explained — 
 
 His small talk turned to words of import deep, 
 
 Proposing, and accepted, and asleep ! 
 
 Kebeeca slept but little, and she dreamed, 
 
 If sleep she did, of all so strange that seemed. 
 
 That very morn how little did she think 
 
 She trembled upon matrimony's brink, 
 
 And yet that sun lit with its evening rays 
 
 " The hindermost of all her maiden days.' 
 
 55* 
 
 Little ken'd Girzy Sinclair, 
 
 That morning whan she raise, 
 That this wad he the hindermost 
 0' a' her maiden days. 
 
 Old Si otch Bali i 
 E
 
 •JO MARRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 
 
 She early rose, or so we may assume, 
 And, on descending to the breakfast room, 
 She found O'Grady and her sire intent 
 Not on the breakfast, but on argument — 
 The former wished at once to take his way 
 With bag and baggage, if we so may say ; 
 But this Papa by no means would agree to, 
 And put upon it his decided veto. 
 His daughter must not, he declared, be starting 
 Off in this way, to increase the pain of parting. 
 Ten days would furnish but a short reprieve ; 
 There were adieus to make, and cards to leave. 
 "If," said he, " with the feelings of a man 
 You will this change of circumstances scan, 
 Or with a father's feelings if you can, 
 You must allow the force of what I say, 
 
 Nor wish to snatch my girl so soon away. 
 
 I 'm old, and could not bear at once to loose her, 
 
 Merely because you were in haste to choose her. 
 
 And then her mother will require, you know, 
 
 Some little time to order the trousseau. 
 
 But why my selfishness should I parade ? 
 
 She comes— and here let all dispute be stayed. 
 
 Ask her, and if she likes to go this hour, 
 
 I '11 exercise no arbitrary power :
 
 MARRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 27 
 
 But filial love, whose voice she'll ne'er disdain, 
 Will urge her for a period to remain — 
 Nor without ceremony to be carried; 
 She 's in no haste, I 'm certain, to get married." 
 Rebecca, entering, heard the question stated, 
 And said, so far from being the least elated, 
 She could not bear the thought of leaving home, 
 And almost wished the time might never come. 
 " But," she continued, if it must be so — 
 If, as he says, the gentleman must go, 
 I'd better let him take me, I am sure, 
 His valuable escort to secure. 
 '^ Besides, I know the longer I delay 
 The more I shall increase my wish to stay, 
 And therefore, wretched as I am about it, 
 I'll go — but that 's the reason, never doubt it." 
 This was conclusive, and dispatch was wronged 
 In nothing save in taking leave prolonged — 
 With bustle, laughter, tears, and all that same, 
 The cavalcade set forth the w r ay it came ; 
 And the bride blessed and pressed was watched 
 
 away, 
 By a whole household miserably gay. 
 Rebecca in the parting scene so brief 
 Felt more perplexity than joy or grief. 
 
 •»«
 
 28 MARRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 
 
 And of her mother's last advice heard none, 
 " To keep her dear complexion from the sun." 
 Again the desert 's traversed — once again 
 The look of life o'erspreads the sandy plain. 
 The drivers hasten on as steamers plough, 
 'T is victory not hope that cheers them now, 
 (Except the hope— not distant — of reward ;) 
 Nought can their spirits check, nor pace retard. 
 The cattle too, that far and fast had gone, 
 Partook the inclination to press on — 
 And the state camel that Rebecca rode 
 Seemed to take pleasure in his lovely load. 
 
 * * # * 
 
 Again the evening's rays their glories lend, 
 And smile in peace upon their journey's end — 
 And the expectant bride some twitterings feels 
 In the new prospect that her fate reveals. 
 Her maiden tremors every step increased 
 Which brought her near and nearer to the priest, 
 And everything was viewed with some relation 
 To the grand object of her contemplation. 
 At length approaching them a figure seen — 
 A young man of good looks but thoughtful mien, 
 So that he realized to the beholders 
 The notion of an old head on young shoulders ;
 
 MAKRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 29 
 
 And this was Isaac, by kind chances brought, 
 Or by a father's hint more kindly taught, 
 To meet his stranger bride, and in his arms 
 Be foremost to receive her new found charms. 
 Was it presentiment ? it must have been, 
 "Which led Rebecca, soon as he was seen, 
 To ask, not boldly, but with interest plain, 
 Whom t' was she saw — nor did she ask in vain. 
 And when presentiment she found fulfilled, 
 When she was told, oh ! how her bosom thrilled. 
 Immediately her camel she forsook ; 
 And, fearful still besides of every look, 
 ' --i -She hid her blushes underneath her veil — 
 A female artifice ne'er known to fail, 
 And hence the veil, which all confusion hides, 
 Is classed among the insignia of brides. 
 Here let an ecpial modesty be shown, 
 And let a veil be o'er our story thrown, 
 Particularly as no more is known. 
 How the first interview was well got over, 
 If Isaac proved at once a welcome lover, 
 We can't describe, nor other details very many, 
 Who did, or who did not perform the ceremony. 
 We only know the wedding did take place, 
 And there no doubt were bridesmaids, cake, and lace ;
 
 30 MARRIAGE A LA MODE ANTIQUE. 
 
 And what was better, as you must confess, 
 
 Their union was replete with happiness. 
 
 I only pause to wish the young and fair 
 
 Happy as Isaac and Rebecca were, 
 
 And must conclude by saying, tho' I thought 
 
 The match to have been more made up than it ought, 
 
 Yet when the affair 's reviewed as I review it 
 
 The question certainly has two sides to it. 
 
 Age has experience — and I must acknowledge 
 
 That e'en by girls come out, and men at college, 
 
 (Tho' moderns 'gainst the rule may have revolted,) 
 
 Fathers have every right to be consulted.
 
 WRITTEN (BY REQUEST) ON SHERWOOD 
 
 FOREST. 
 
 In days of old, -when famous Robin Hood 
 Went with his merry men thro' gay Sherwood, 
 *._„ Astonishingly well their bows they drew, 
 
 And scores of harts, and scores of hinds they slew 
 But Sherwood's archers now are dressed, I ween, 
 In frocks, and not frock coats of Lincoln green, 
 And shoot, but only at a different game, 
 With a far sharper, and a surer aim. 
 In other words, the archers differ thus — 
 They shot the deer, and now the dears shoot us.
 
 ON SOME FADED FLOWERS. 
 
 Dear, sad memorial ! and in decay- 
 Emblem of past delight ! thy fragrance o'er, 
 Thou 'rt yet a talisman to half restore 
 
 The hour that made thee mine : for, so to say, 
 
 My heart, with all the love that eyes convey, 
 Received eternal pledge, the bloom you wore. 
 
 And gazing on thee, as a sacred shrine, 
 
 Like lightning from the darkest cloud, her glance 
 Of fervent joy and heavenly radiance 
 
 Seems for a moment interchanged with mine. 
 Such is thy secret, sympathetic sway — 
 And when the fond illusion melts away, 
 
 Thy withered leaves seem more a relic grown, 
 And like some loved departed spirit's clay 
 
 Which contemplation sees, nor sees alone, 
 
 But with sad comfort, lingering ere 't is flown !
 
 SEPARATION. 
 
 Absent in body, but in spirit near 
 To all my soul must hold as only dear, 
 I still shall one day clasp thee to my breast 
 With ef-erj pang of hope and fear at rest. 
 And oh ! how sweet when all these trials o'er, 
 And we need tremble, sigh, and wish no more, 
 To find the prize for which we waited given, 
 And in one glorious moment seize on heaven. 
 Till then, as much as then, I'll call thee mine; 
 What time may seem to sever, time shall join. 
 Till then I 'm yours — nor deem that I forget ; 
 We never parted — for I see thee yet! 
 
 F
 
 A SUMMER'S MORNING. 
 
 The grey dawn mixes with the hues of night ; 
 
 Quiet and cold and unperceived at first, 
 
 It rises — and the dappled clouds begin 
 
 To brighten towards the East — the swallow tribe 
 
 Wheel silently above, and all is still ! 
 
 How sober, and how grand the landscape now ! 
 
 View those large trees, which scarce a vanished age 
 
 Hath marked as old, like snant sentinels 
 
 That guard the soil : behold the river glide 
 
 Noiseless and dark its ever winding way, 
 
 And those proud turrets where the holy moon 
 
 Flung late her radiance; every field and hill 
 
 Looks heavy in the distance, for the dew 
 
 Sparkles not yet in morning's brighter beam ;
 
 \ si M\n:i;'s MORNING. 35 
 
 Clouds overhang and nature seems to be 
 
 Loath to commence her toil, and sleeps in light ! 
 
 The birds awaken and the woods resound 
 
 With melody; the warbling thrush prolongs 
 
 His prelude soft — the blackbird's wilder note 
 
 Rejoices in a chorus loud and high ; 
 
 The lark sweet carols, and the cuckoo trills 
 
 His solitary note along the glade. 
 
 But soon the rosy-fingered morn unbars 
 
 The portals of the East, and the sun comes 
 
 Thro' his bright harbingers of golden clouds ! 
 
 He comes ! and gives the flowers and foliage warmth, 
 
 And dries the moisture of the dew-clad grass, 
 
 Bidding all Nature glow beneath his ray. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The fine and delicate texture of the sky, 
 The grandeur of repose, and magic grace 
 That lately overspread the waking world, 
 Fade rapidly, and when the sun is high, 
 And all is gone that was so fair tu see, 
 Man rouses from his bed to toil and care ! 

 
 TO A WAVE ROLLING ON THE BEACH. 
 
 Sea wave ! whence art thou come, and wherefore here ? 
 
 Thou com'st, indeed, but back again to roll; 
 To-morrow's light perchance may see thee rear 
 
 Thy crest where the mid ocean knows no shoal, 
 And heedless all thou leav'st us, and art gone 
 Far leagues away, unceasing rolling on. 
 
 Oft thou hast washed in sport our happy shore, 
 As playful in thy sunny smiles as now, 
 
 And back hast swept, with hoarse and angry roar, 
 In fury on the fated vessel's prow ; 
 
 Or gaily kissed at eve her side whose wreck 
 
 That night shall see thee bursting o'er the deck.
 
 TO A WAVE ROLLING OH Till: BEACH. .'i7 
 
 Yea, when a hardy handful that may spring 
 
 Into the boat are rowing all alone, 
 Fell, tell pursuer, follow them and fling 
 
 Thy bosom over them, and they are gone ! 
 While thou again with smiles their shores shall greet, 
 And lave their widows' and their daughters' feet. 
 
 And so thy fellow-element, the wind, 
 
 Scatters the simoom's devastating cloud, 
 
 And passing on doth fairy locks unbind, 
 Or wave the scarf of lover in a crowd — 
 
 Leaves land, becomes a sea-breeze, and again 
 , -iBears danger and destruction on to men. 
 
 Chanceful and changeful as this mortal life, 
 
 "Who can divine thy origin or end ? 
 How long in ripple, or in stormy strife, 
 
 Sweeping o'er leagues where'er thy course may tend, 
 Thou hast been minister of good or ill 
 To men, to nations, but a subject still !
 
 WANTED A SEAT IN PAELIAMENT, 1839. 
 
 Had I a seat in Parliament, 
 
 My country in my care, 
 I never should be found content 
 
 To sit a cypher there. 
 No ! for Reform with vote and voice 
 
 My utmost should be tried, 
 And ministers might well rejoice 
 
 To have me on their side. 
 
 For they 'd be stronger ten per cent. 
 Had I a seat in Parliament. 
 
 And first I 'd show my churchman's zeal, 
 
 " To turn Church lands to lay," 
 Though how 't would answer for its weal 
 
 I can : t at present say.
 
 
 WANTED A SEAT IN PARLIAMENT, 1839 ■"•' > 
 
 It 's stood too long in statu quo 
 
 For anybody's viewing, 
 And whether it bear fruit or no, 
 The tree must, want renewing. 
 
 And nothing else I ever meant — 
 Had I a seat in Parliament. 
 
 The Corn-laws I would abrogate, 
 
 The farmers are too rich ; 
 Let all be equal, small and great, 
 
 That seems the general itch. 
 Or if this should not come to pass, 
 
 Still turn and turn about; 
 Patriots like me should have the brass, 
 
 And farmers go without, 
 
 And landlords whistle for their rent, 
 Had I a seat in Parliament. 
 
 The House of Peers about their ears 
 
 I 'd very quickly pull, 
 And laws observed in bygone years 
 
 By one law I 'd annul ; 
 No law at all my daily prayer, 
 
 And eke my nightly dream ;
 
 40 WANTED A SEAT IN PARLIAMENT, 1839 
 
 Mankind would then be free as air, 
 The Whigs should be supreme, 
 
 And Tories to the devil sent, 
 Had I a seat in Parliament. 
 
 The poor who see all this begun 
 
 Feel trouble like a feather, 
 And patiently, until 't is done, 
 
 In union live together. 
 And when the skies roast mutton rain, 
 
 And streets are paved with gold, 
 Why then you may be justly vain 
 
 To me your votes you sold — 
 
 Or say your confidence you lent, 
 And I 'd a seat in Parliament.
 
 THE HUMA* 
 
 
 There is an Eastern bird, which seen 
 Over the peasant's head to fly, 
 
 Assures him, tho' years intervene, 
 A crown upon his brows shall lie. 
 
 And, tho' near death's dark door he be, 
 And pain, and grief, and shame endure, 
 
 That bird he o'er his head might see 
 For ever makes his prospects sure. 
 
 And I, tho' for a time despair, 
 
 Remorse, and anguish past controul, 
 
 And blighted hope, and grief and care, 
 Drive deep the iron in my soul — 
 
 * The Huma, a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in 
 the air, and never touch the ground: it is looked upon as a bird of happy omen, 
 and the belief is, that every head it overshades will in time wear a crown. — 
 Un HABD80N.
 
 42 THE HUMA. 
 
 T 'is for a time: my ears have heard 
 
 A sound that ne'er shall fade away ; 
 I 've heard a life-recalling word — 
 
 "I love thee," I have heard thee say. 
 
 So cruel fate can never send 
 
 His sharpest shaft, though all combine, 
 To you, O Fate ! I ne'er shall bend, 
 
 Till you can say, " she is not thine."
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 Can that be called a conquest which is won 
 Without an effort made, a siege begun ? 
 Where force opposed to weakness finds it yield ? 
 Is there a triumph in a bloodless field ? 
 No more than you obtained, when I was free, 
 And in a moment lost my liberty.
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 Ye rash adventurers, beware ! 
 If such an enterprise ye dare. 
 As here t' inscribe a single line, 
 Your fate shall be the same as mine ! 
 For this is an enchanted ground, 
 In which, if once a wight is found, 
 A new Calypso, and deceiver, 
 Shall keep him as her slave for ever.
 
 ODE TO MARY, 
 
 BY ONE OF THE OLDEST, AND NOT THE LEAST AKIU'.NI. 
 OF HER ADMIRERS. 
 
 
 I never thought that I should fall 
 In love with any one at all ; 
 Yet so it is, and I 'm thy thrall, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 When first I saw my future bride, 
 She sate yon flowery bank beside, 
 And milked the Cow yclept "the Pied," 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And as I gazed I found there grew 
 Within my bosom feelings new ; 
 I bore, and bear them still for you, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Nor these alone— I bear the jokes 
 Of cruel scandalizing folks, 
 Who laugh bcauise I kiss and coax, 
 
 My Mary !
 
 16 ODE TO MARY. 
 
 And my relations say that I 
 Am mary-ing when I should die ; 
 And giving them real cause to cry, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Well, if they say so, never mind, 
 I shall be happy if I find 
 Content and constant, fair and kind, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But then, to what shall I compare ye ? 
 (Women, like weather-glasses, vary) ; 
 Then sometimes you are quite contrary, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 You look so cross and speak so loud, 
 You make me feel completely cowed, 
 And show yourself extremely proud, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 You say I should be more a buck, 
 So that I only wish for luck, 
 My head with horns may not be stuck, 
 
 My Mary !
 
 ODE TO MARY. 17 
 
 And still, though such may be the case, 
 Yet be the faults that I would chace 
 Forgot in such a lovely face, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Whatever you may do or say, 
 I still must feel as on the day 
 When first you stole my heart away, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Gazing on every rural charm, 
 Thy ruddy neck, thy hand and arm, 
 By early milking rendered warm, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 The world's dread laugh I can despise, 
 And looking babbies in thine eyes, 
 Think love hit Solomon the wise, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Then let me cull before it fade 
 The flower that 's blooming in the shade, 
 My queen of curds ! my dairy maid, 
 
 My Mary !
 
 EPITAPH ON "CHARTIST," 
 
 A HORSE WELL KNOWN WITH THE HOLDERNESS HOUNDS. 
 
 Chartist !* who failed but at the last, whose game 
 
 Showed strong in death, whose vice was but in name, 
 
 Who ne'er thy master's confidence abused, 
 
 Who always rose, and never once refused ! 
 
 'Twas thy death-note at Kelkf by Taylor:}: blown, 
 
 And the last whoop thou heard'st was but thine own ! 
 
 Sleep on ! thou 'st vanished, as thou oft hast done, 
 
 Before the melee in a brilliant run — 
 
 But of thy wonted fleetness what remains ? 
 
 The hoof that spurned the follows, turf detains ! 
 
 * Chartist on his last day went through an hour's run, and left off perfectly 
 fresh — hut after returning home appeared distressed, and died of exhaustion, from 
 no visihle cause. On dissection, it was found he had sustained a rupture of the 
 liver, and had bled to death. 
 
 + Kelk pastures, where the fox was found, and to which he returned after an 
 hour's run, and where he was killed. 
 
 } The huntsman.
 
 L' INSOUCIANTE. 
 
 *■*■» 
 
 She has no heart — at least for love ! 
 
 But soul she has in plenty ; 
 And tho' no man her breast can move, 
 
 She moves nineteen in twenty. 
 
 No melting moods I 've had with her, 
 But melting moments many ; 
 
 And after all I must aver 
 
 That they 're the best of any ! 
 
 The wounds she gives, altho' severe, 
 Are playful, not past healing, 
 
 She 'd rather see you love than fear, 
 And more at ease than kneeling. 
 
 Lovely as lively she appears, 
 And radiant as of heaven, 
 
 But less of saint than angel wears — 
 Not much of angel even. 
 ii
 
 50 L INSOUCIANTE. 
 
 But she is all a man can wish, 
 
 And lhore than all one fancies 
 Of heroines, whether heathenish, 
 Or modern in romances. 
 
 All that is generous, kind, and good, 
 All that is soft and pleasing, 
 
 All that is witty, but not rude, 
 All that she knows is teasing ! 
 
 And surely she besides must have, 
 To make this vast impression, 
 
 The magic girdle Venus gave 
 To Juno in possession ! 
 
 Or whence the charm? her wandering eyes 
 Would make an anchorite wander ; 
 
 Her cheek of loveliest eastern dyes 
 
 Would make the Grand Turk grander. 
 
 Her brow seems always shone upon, 
 Her smile like lightning plays ; 
 
 And more than all, her form is one 
 Embodying every grace !
 
 l' insouciante. r>i 
 
 But such man's lieart — e'en these combined 
 
 Could not for ever win it — 
 And we must leave the case we find, 
 
 With still a mystery in it. 
 
 And tho' this magic spell away, 
 
 We then might break our fetter, 
 For that, and for my heart I say, 
 
 If she will keep 'em — let her ! 
 
 P.S. — Since writing the above I find 
 
 She 's altered like the season ; 
 She liked me once, but changed her mind, 
 And cuts me without reason. 
 
 Unluckily she 's got my heart, 
 
 But that I '11 soon recover ; 
 Which will not, underneath the smart, 
 
 Be soon again a rover. 
 
 Now to discern her faults I 'm free, 
 But here who ever knew much ? 
 
 Her only fault 's not liking me, 
 And mine — I like her too much.
 
 HER MAIDEN NAME. 
 
 " What's in a Name?" 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, Act ii. Scene 2. 
 
 An hour, one little hour ago, 
 
 Her maiden name she bore ; 
 And with a sadness meant for show 
 
 She wrote, and gave it o'er. 
 But that's a sigh! and from the heart 
 
 It seems as tho' it came — 
 As some one speaking makes her start 
 
 To hear her maiden name. 
 
 And why ? Her present state with doubt 
 
 As much as hope is rife — 
 The past is certain and points out 
 
 The moonlit road of life ; 
 Where shadows only soften still 
 
 The brightness of the way, 
 And where the morn, smile how it will, 
 
 Will never smile so gay.
 
 + ■ -> 
 
 HER MAIDEN NAME. 53 
 
 E'en midst the smiles, the tears of some 
 
 The name that strange seemed grown, 
 Within the portal of her home 
 
 She fancies still her own : 
 Oft in her dreams she '11 hear it too, 
 
 And not surprised reply, 
 But find imagination grew 
 
 From wakeful memory. 
 
 And so, perhaps, in after years, 
 
 That name, tho' half forgot, 
 Shall bring back almost childhood's tears, 
 
 For thoughts that else were not. 
 It seems a magic power to spread 
 
 Before her at a glance 
 The picture, now with rapture read, 
 
 Of all her youth's romance. 
 
 A parent, or some dear old friend, 
 
 Who the new name ne'er heard ; 
 Some fair young playmate whose sad end 
 
 Her girlish griefs had stirred, — 
 These shall come back, and many a scene 
 
 Before that marriage vow, 
 And " dancing days," and " sweet eighteen," 
 
 And lovers — not so now !
 
 .p1 her maiden name. 
 
 Some she beholds death soon may smite, 
 
 Soon may remain, at most, 
 Few who remember, or who might, 
 
 The name she lately lost. 
 And with that loss an undefined 
 
 And gloomy feeling grows, 
 Such as may chill the happiest mind, 
 
 And start it from repose. 
 
 Alas ! of such few flowers as fall 
 
 Along the path we tread, 
 The sweetest seem among them all 
 
 Those soonest found, and dead ! 
 For those she culled while yet 't was May, 
 
 Oh ! deem her not to blame, 
 If with a sigh she turned away, 
 
 To hear her maiden name !
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 The leaves that autumn strews around 
 Are emblems of a fall more dear ; 
 
 And winter's snow that chills the ground, 
 Shall find a gloomier winter here! 
 
 This is the day that, far from sight 
 
 Of all who loved and all who sighed, 
 She must be taken, leaving light 
 
 In the cold silent grave to hide. 
 
 The eye, the hand, the heart are still — 
 
 That eye, whose glance was magic's power- 
 That hand, at whose touch hands would thrill- 
 That heart, the sweetness of the flower ! 
 
 And can it be ? Can Death's fell stroke 
 Anticipate the stroke of Time ? 
 
 The silver link at once be broke 
 
 E'er worn and chafed in earthly clime ?
 
 ■>l> ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 How lately was she absent never, 
 
 Where joy's all- varying form was known ! 
 
 And has she left us now for ever, 
 To trace our former path alone ? 
 
 'T is like the mid-day sun, when clouds 
 Swift and sad messengers appear ; 
 
 And darkness suddenly enshrouds 
 
 The heaven that seemed so bright and fair. 
 
 The sun shines forth again to-day, 
 If not to-day, to-morrow shines : 
 
 But for thy loss, the kind, the gay, 
 Still, still, the aching heart repines. 
 
 O lost to earth, and earthly ties ! 
 
 Than whom they none more fondly drew ; 
 If aught of comfort can arise, 
 
 'Tis that none less earth's sorrows knew. 
 
 We may know age, and pain, and care, 
 While calm thy rest among the dead ; 
 
 And oft may wipe away the tear, 
 
 Thou never didst, and ne'er wilt shed !
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 57 
 
 When old and grey, if such we grow, 
 And glancing backward on the past, 
 
 How strange 'twill seem to view thee so, 
 In youth's fair freshness as thou wast ! 
 
 No thought of thee can ever come, 
 
 Save hallowing thoughts of peace and love ; 
 
 They follow thee beyond the tomb, 
 And hail thy smile in realms above ! 

 
 ON THE IVY. 
 
 Ivy ! that on the monastery wall, 
 
 Seem'st full of life, to speak but of the dead ; 
 
 How many a race since first thy leaves were shed 
 
 Have wandered here in cowl, and cloak, and shawl ! 
 
 And yet this is no place for you at all ! 
 
 Perchance thou mourn'st the glories of old days : 
 
 But sure the shades of friars blithe and jolly 
 
 Love not a monument so melancholy ; 
 
 And to ourselves thou 'rt still more out of place. 
 
 Gaily we walk beneath the arches' frown, 
 
 Where thy long shoots extend from earth to air ; 
 
 But coldly on the gazer look'st thou down, 
 
 And sounds of laughter echo sadly there ! 
 
 Julia declares the Ivy picturesque, 
 
 And this I venture — all 't is mine to say — 
 
 Ivy do thou the compliment repay :
 
 ON THE IVY. 59 
 
 Remain no longer conjuring up the past, 
 Since sorrow's emblem now appears burlesque — 
 Live to record what thou hast seen to-day, 
 The charms of her who looked upon thee last. 
 Then be thy character of grief forgot, 
 And be transformed to myrtle on the spot ! 
 
 ' i - «
 
 TO A LADY ON HER PICTUEE. 
 
 How can the limner's skill that form define ? 
 
 How that sweet smile express ? or in what dyes 
 That cheek's warm blushes with its snow can join? 
 
 Or paint the azure of those speaking eyes ? 
 
 How can the attempted grace by art displayed 
 To nature's fairest pattern e'er be true ? 
 
 How can the soul on canvas be pourtrayed ? 
 How can your picture ever equal you ? 
 
 No more this page can my one thought contain, 
 Tho' admiration it may well declare ; 
 
 For search my heart and find that there you reign, 
 And more, much more, than admiration there !
 
 ON THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 'T is the new year ! the last hath scarcely flown, 
 
 Its joys are vanished, and its troubles past ! 
 For ever gone, the shortest year e'er known — 
 
 The too long year, it may be, ends at last ! 
 ..• ^But see, as if to turn such thoughts as these, 
 
 How lovely is the first of the new year — 
 Full of tranquillity and breathing peace, 
 
 So sweet, so silent, to the eye and ear ! 
 
 The moon and stars seem on this world beneath 
 
 To gaze intently from the clear blue sky, 
 And earth is hushed, not with the sleep of death, 
 
 But that of calm and guileless infancy ! 
 The breeze is stilled, the hoar-frost lightly spread 
 
 Lends a more silvery aspect to the plain — 
 ( )n Nature's fare rejoicing may be read, 
 
 Ae if she field in Paradise her reign !
 
 62 ON THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 And hopes as bright as Heaven will fill the mind; 
 
 Which like that brightness clouds may soon obscure; 
 Love, if we love, is something more refined, 
 
 And almost, tho' a human passion, pure. 
 The heart's best feelings unalloyed arise, 
 
 And, with reflexion softened by the scene, 
 We look where happiness in future lies, 
 
 And scarce regret the pleasures that have been ! 
 
 E'en for the moment care shall seem at rest, 
 
 Sorrow less harsh in aspect shall appear — 
 So beauty's smile can ease the troubled breast, 
 
 And friendship's aid the mournful heart can cheer ! 
 The influences of the hour supreme 
 
 Pervade our retrospect of good or ill — 
 The year is o'er, and should be as a dream 
 
 That fades with dawn, tho' 't is remembered still.
 
 THE RETURNING SMILE. 
 
 Bright, bright as ever beams thy smile, 
 
 And that glad look returns, 
 Where spreads unknowingly the wile 
 
 Each eye and heart discerns. 
 
 Why was that glance of fire subdued, 
 And half those charms withdrawn, 
 
 But that their influence renewed 
 Should over-match their dawn ? 
 
 So when the sun long clouded breaks 
 
 At evening forth in pride, 
 The storm gone by more welcome makes 
 
 The glories he could hide. 
 
 And then 't is passing sweet to mark 
 On earth his glittering lines, 
 
 While o'er the distant hills, tho' dark, 
 Like Hope, the rainbow shines !
 
 THE FAIRER FLOWER. 
 
 These flowers, tho' now so lovely to my eye, 
 If they could hear me praise them would reply, 
 " No thauks to you, sir, tho' you may be right, 
 When next you see us you '11 neglect us quite. 
 Wait but to-night, and then we are afraid 
 A fairer flower will throw us in the shade ! "
 
 LOVE A FLOWER. 
 
 The flower that blooms in pride to-day, 
 Was yesterday a bud — no more — 
 
 And grew so gently we may say 
 We never noticed it before. 
 
 Thus love in embryo remains. 
 Till, in some unexpected hour, 
 
 The bursting bud its freedom gains, 
 And thus expands — a perfect flower !
 
 
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