Oh! were I by your bounty fed!--
Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide,-
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep!-ha!-this to me?

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look, and see Your happy, happy orphan boy.

WILLIAM SPENCER

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.

Too late I stay'd, forgive the crime,
Unheeded flew the hours;

How noiseless falls the foot of Time
That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks
That dazzle as they pass!

Ah! who to sober measurement

Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for its wings?

WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS.

WHEN the black-lettered list to the gods was presented
(The list of what fate for each mortal intends),
At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,

And slipped in three blessings-wife, children, and friends.

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated,
For justice divine could not compass its ends;
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,

For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children, and friends.

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,
The fund, ill-secured, oft in bankruptcy ends;
But the heart issues bills which are never protested,
When drawn on the firm of-wife, children, and friends.

Though valour still glows in his life's dying embers,
The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends,
Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers

How bless'd was his home with-wife, children, and friends.

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story,
Whom duty to far-distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter old ages of glory

For one happy day with-wife, children, and friends.

Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover,
Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover

The bower where he sat with-wife, children, and friends.

The day-spring of youth still unclouded by sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;

But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow

No warmth from the smile of-wife, children, and friends.

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish

The laurel which o'er the dead favourite bends; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, Bedewed with the tears of-wife, children, and friends.

Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver,
To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;

Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavour
The glass which I fill to-wife, children, and friends.

BYRON.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

My hair is grey, but not with years;
Nor grew it white

In a single night,

As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose,

For they have been a dungeon's spoil,

And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd-forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'd chains and courted death;
That father perish'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place.
We were seven-who now are one.

Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish'd as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal'd;
Dying as their father died,

For the God their foes denied:

Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old;
There are seven columns, massy and grey,
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray,—

A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left,
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,

And in each ring there is a chain;That iron is a cankering thing,

For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years I cannot count them o'er; I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side.

They chain'd us each to a column stone,
And we were three-yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus, together-yet apart,
Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart,
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each,
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;