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O’ercome with terror, the pale boy sank down:
And wildly gaz'd around him, till his eye
Fell on a stone, on which these warning words
Were carv'd :-
« Time! thou art flying rapidly
But wither art thou flying ?”.
“To the grave—which yours will be-
I wait not for the dying.
In early youth you laugh'd at me,
And, laughing, pass'd life's morning;
But, in thine age, I laugh at thee-
Too late to give thee warning."
“Death! thy shadowy form I see,
The steps of Time pursuing :
Like him thou comest rapidly:
What deed must thou be doing ?”
Mortal! my message
is for thee:
Thy chain to earth is rended :
I bear thee to eternity:
Prepare ! thy course is ended!”
Attentively the fainting boy perus’d
The warning lines; then grew more terrified;
For, from the grave, there seem'd to rise a voice
Repeating them, and telling him of time
Mispent; of death approaching rapidly;
And of the dark eternity that follow'd.
His fears increas’d, till on the ground he lay
Almost bereft of feeling and of sense,
And there his mother found him :
From the damp church-yard sod she bore her child,
Frighten'd to feel his clammy hands, and hear
The sighs and sobs that from his bosom came.
'Twas strange, the influence which that fearful hour Had o'er his future life; for, from that night, He was a thoughtful and industrious boy. And still the memory of those warning words Bids him reflect,-now that he is a man, And writes these feeble lines that others may.
“O Youth ! thou art a passing hour
Of vision and delight;
Each sense exults with rapturous power,
every scene is bright.
0, I would fain this hour should be
For ever bright and warm to me:
Vain wish! I feel, I feel it flies,
Swift as a sun-beam through the skies.
O Youth! thou art a blooming rose,
All fragrant, fresh, and neat;
With gayest health thy beauty glows,
With hope and love, how sweet!
0, I would fain, through life's brief day,
This health and hope and love should stay:
It may not be, howe'er it grieves,
Youth's loveliest rose must shed its leaves.
O Youth ! thou art a charming sound
Of music, joy, and mirth :
The spirit, which thy reign had bound,
Outsings the birds of earth.
0, I would fain the note prolong;
Yea, list for ever to thy song;
Alas, I feel each discord's strife
Uncharms the minstrelsy of life.
O Youth ! thou art a vernal day;
But bright hours are thy wings,
Beauty's fallen roses strew thy way,
And time thy requiem sings;
I see, I feel, I cannot hold
Thy reign, by hopes, or prayers, or gold ;
I see, I feel, each day, each night,
But plumes thy pinions for the flight.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot O'er the
where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of the night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclos’d his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we stedfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him: But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock toll’d the hour for retiring : And we heard by the distant random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory. Rev. C.Wolfe.
COMPARED WITH A PIOUS COTTAGER.
The Frenchman, first in literary fame,
(Mention him if you please. Voltaire?—The same,)
With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied,
Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died.
The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew;
An infidel in health—but what when sick?
Oh then a text would touch him at the quick:
View him at Paris in his last career,
Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere;
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,
And fum'd with frankincense on every side,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath,
And smother'd in't at last, is prais'd to death.
Yon Cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store,
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,
(A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew)
Ànd in that charter reads with sparkling eyes
Her title to a treasure in the skies.
”Twas autumn, and the leaves were dry,
And rustled on the ground,
And chilly winds went whistling by
With low and pensive sound.
As through the grave-yard's lone retreat,
By meditation led,
I walk’d, with slow and cautious feet,
Above the sleeping dead-
Three little graves, rang’d side by side,
My close attention drew;
O’er two, the tall grass bending, sigh’d,
And one seem'd fresh and new.
As ling'ring there, I mus'd awhile
On death's long, dreamless sleep,
And opening life's deceitful smile,
A mourner came to weep.