"There is, "resumed the nymph," not only humour and truth in this little poem, but a naïveté of thought and expression, which shows that the author possesses very amiable dispositions." "Possessed!" replied the Bachelor with a mournful accent," but read me the short ballad on old age. I remember, when I heard it at first, it struck me as one of the most plaintive and simple complaints I had ever met with. It is in my opinion quite a melody, and a sad one too. Alas, that we should grow old!" Egeria turned over the papers, till she found the piece, and then began to read. A BALLAD ON OLD AGE, Come any gentle poet Who wants a mournful page, O age is dark and dreary, In rest finds no repose; His friends long time departed, That were so true and kind, When children are hard-hearted, He thinks them at his side. O who would strive with nature I seek not life, but rather "I shall not be content, my dear Benedict," said the nymph," till you tell me by whom these papers were written, and how it happened that so many really charming things have never been published ?" "Whether any of these poems have ever been published,” replied the Bachelor, "I do not certainly know; but the Essay on Deformity was printed in some periodical work at the time it was written, and I recollect it obtained a warm commendation from the editor. The author then was very young, a mere boy, and the promise of his talent was a blossom that might have come in time to some rich and rare fruit, had he been spared in health.” "In health! then he is still alive ?" said the nymph. "Do not question me any further at present," replied the Bachelor; "I have a reason for my silence. Have you looked at any more?" "Yes; and here is a song which is both spirited and highly poetical.” THE CALL OF MORVEN. Strike the harp! strike the harp! O ye masters of song! And the sons of green Morven must follow to war. For the sons of green Morven are summoned to war! "But," continued the nymph, "it is in the simple pathetic that the author most excels,—and here is a little piece of that kind which I think affecting and pretty." THE SWISS BEGGAR. OI am not of this countrie, And much my heart is wrung, And beg in foreign tongue. "Tis all to gain a little sum My home is in the Valteline, I cannot mend this little store; And I shall ne'er behold it more, If you have ever been abroad, Bestow an alms on me! And think you speed me on my road My native land to see. My cot still rises to my view, And must I ever thus deplore Your country is a pleasant land, I have not here a kindred band When on my native hills I play'd, I did not love an English maid But I must die on England's strand, And ne'er behold my native land, "I am also well pleased with another short poem, which, without being very lofty in the style, is very animated in the conception, and full of lyrical energy." ODE TO PATRIOTISM. O thou who didst thy vigils keep, |