How fair is the rose! What a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May;
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of man,
Though they bloom and look gay like a rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth, or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.
Ан! Fisher Boy, I well know thee,
Brother thou art to Marion Lee!
What, didst thou think I knew thee not,
Couldst thou believe I had forgot?
For shame, for shame! what! I forget
The treasures of thy laden net,
And how we went one day together,
One day of showery, summer weather,
Up the sea-shore, and for an hour
Stood sheltering from a pelting shower
Within an upturned, ancient boat,
That had not been for years afloat?
No, no, my boy! I liked too well
The old sea-stories thou didst tell;
I liked too well thy roguish eye-
Thy merry speech-thy laughter sly—
Thy old sea-jacket, to forget—
And then, the treasures of thy net!
O Andrew! thou hast not forgot—
I'm very sure that thou hast not—
All that we talked about that day,
Of famous countries far away;
Of Crusoes in their islands lone,
That never were nor will be known,
And yet this very moment stand
Upon some point of mountain land,
Looking out o'er the desert sea,
If chance some coming ship there be.
Thou know'st we talked of this-thou know'st
We talked about a ship-boy's ghost—
A wretched little orphan lad
Who served a master stern and bad,
And had no friend to take his part,
And perished of a broken heart :
Or by his master's blows, some said,
For in the boat they found him dead,
And the boat's side was stained and red!
And then we talked of many a heap
Of ancient treasure in the deep,
And the great serpent that some men
In far-off seas meet now and then;
Of grand sea-palaces that shine
Through forests of old coralline;
And wondrous creatures that may
In many a crimson Indian shell;
Till I shook hands with thee, to see
Thou wast a poet-Andrew Lee!
Though thou wast guiltless at the time
Of putting any thoughts in rhyme.
Ah, little fisher boy! since then
Ladies I've seen, and learned men,
All clever, and some great and wise,
Who study all things, earth and skies,
Who much have seen and much have read,
And famous things have writ and said;
But, Andrew, never have I heard
One who so much my spirit stirred,
As he who sat with me an hour,
Screened from the pelting thunder-shower-
Now laughing in his merry wit;
Now talking in a serious fit,
In speech that poured like water free ;
And that was thou-poor Andrew Lee !
Then shame to think I knew thee not-
Thou hast not, nor have I forgot;
And long 'twill be ere I forget
How thou took'st up thy laden net,
And gave me all that it contained,
Because I too thy heart had gained !
SHUN delays, they breed remorse,
Take thy time while time is lent thee; Creeping snails have weakest force;
Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee: Good is best when soonest wrought, Lingering labour comes to nought.
sail while gale doth last,
Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure; Seek not time when time is past,
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure: After-wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.
Time wears all his locks before,
Take thou hold upon his forehead,
When he flies, he turns no more,
And behind, his scalp is naked:
Works adjourned have many stays,
Long demurs breed new delays.
Seek thy salve while sore is green, Festered wounds ask deeper lancing; After-cures are seldom seen,
Often sought, scarce ever chancing : Time and place give best advice,
Out of season, out of price.
WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
Just as the modest morn
Teemed her refreshing dew?
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