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One day, while raining fast as it could pour,
Pray Sir, can you ?
And further gave his tit-for-tat in
The withering herbage dies. Among the palms,
Who hunt for the golden dew,
With the peal of your elfin crew!
Singing ever from bloom to bloom!
you, And the air that you breathe perfume. But unenvied your joys, while the richest you miss,
And before you no brighter life lies: Who would part with his cares for enjoyment like this, When the tears, that imbitter the pure spirit's bliss,
May be pearls in the crown of the skies?
THE DERVISE AND HIS GARDEN.
A PERSIAN FABLE.
In a garden as bright as the isles of the blest,
A Dervise of Gazna delighted to rove; There the rose was expanding her beautiful breast,
And the nightingale near sung the music of love: The gales breath'd of bliss o'er the plants that grew Exhaling perfume, or enchanting the eye. [nigh, By a fountain that whisper'd in tones of delight
The spring loving almond exulted in bloom; There the eye of the waken'd narcissus was bright,
And the locks of the hyacinth scatter'd perfume: Here the tulips were marshall'd in turban'd array, There the cedar's dark grandeur excluded the day. The Dervise from home and from comfort remov'd,
O'er life's stony desert long wander'd in pain; Yet oft he remember'd the garden he lov’d,
And sigh'd to repose by its borders again. Thus years
but his love was the same, And at length to the garden returning he came. The roses were gone, and the nightingales fled;
There no more were the tulips in turban'd array; The cedar was fall'n, the almond was dead,
And rank were the weeds that obstructed the way; No longer was seen the narcissus's eye ; The flowers were destroy’d, and the fountain was dry. The Dervise look'd round, and beginning to grieve,
Sigh’d deeply, and said in the language of truth, “How mournful a change does the mortal perceive,
Who returns in his age to the scenes of his youth ! In hope he returns, but enjoyment is o'er ; His friends, like the flowers I lament, are no more!”
W. Shoberl. Å FOREST SCENE.
-Look how the wood-walks hither tend,
can trace Their coy meanders; but all meeting here Beneath this monarch oak, through whose thick
boughs The sụn comes ffickering. How the indented
leaves Of brightest green cut clearly the blue sky And the small clouds! And how this tiny spring Bubbles and sparkles round the moss-grown roots, Winding its silver thread along the short Elastic turf, so thickly set with flowers, And mix'd with fragrant herbs; till all is lost Amongst the bowery thickets ! Not a spot In all the forest can compare with this, Nature's own temple !
CHILDHOOD AND MANHOOD.
"Twas eight o'clock, and near the fire
My ruddy little boy was seated,
My ears expected to be greeted :
No father there the child descried;
Or, nodding, rolld from side to side.
“ Let this young rogue be sent to bed !” —
Nought further had I time to say, When the poor urchin rais’d his head
To beg that he might longer stay. Refus’d, tow’rds rest his steps he bent,
With tearful eye and aching heart; But claim'd his playthings ere he went,
And took stairs his horse and cart. For new delay, though oft denied,
He pleaded; wildly crav’d the boon:
At being sent away so soon.
(Unmov'd who hears his offspring weep ?) Of soothing him I half despair’d;
But soon his cares were lost in sleep. “ Alas! poor infant !” I exclaim'd,
Thy father blushes now to scan, In all which he so lately blam'd,
The follies and the fears of man. The vain regret, the anguish brief,
Which thou hast known, sent up to bed, Portrays of man the idle grief,
When doom'd to slumber with the dead." And more I thought; when, up the stairs,
With“ longing, ling’ring looks,” he crept, To mark of man the childish cares,
His playthings carefully he kept. Thus mortals, on life's later stage,
When nature claims their forfeit breath, Still grasp at wealth in pain and age,
And cling to golden toys in death.