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As some grave gentleman in Terence says, ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days) Good lack, we know not what to-morrow bringsStrange fluctuations of all human things! True. Changes will befal, and friends may part, But distance only cannot change the heart: And, were I call’d to prove th' assertion true, One proof should serve—a reference to you.
Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life,
Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe,
Go, fellow !—whither?”-turning short about“ Nay. Stay at home—you're always going out.” “ 'Tis but a step, Sir, just at the street's end.”"For what?”—“An’ please you, Sir, to see a friend.” “A friend !" Horatio cried, and seem'd to start* Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart.And fetch my cloak; for, though the night be raw, I'll see him too—the first I ever saw !”
I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child; But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, Else he was seldom bitter or morose. Perhaps his confidence just then betray’d, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth :
Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind,
But not to moralize too much, and strain
O happy Britain! we have not to fear
The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd!
Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows; How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks, in many a broken word His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard, And ever, ever, to her lap he fies, When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise. Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung, (That name most dear for ever on his tongue) As with soft accents round her neck he clings, And cheek to cheek her lulling songs she sings, How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ! Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
But soon a nobler task demands her care. Apart she joins his little hands in prayer Telling of Him who sees in secret there ! And now the volume on her knee has caught His wandering eye—now many a written thought Never to die, with many a lisping sweet His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Releas’d, he chases the bright butterfly; Oh he would follow4follow through the sky! Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain, And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane : Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain side, Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can, If now he wears the habit of a man, Flings off the coat, so long his pride and pleasure, And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
name arise! Where'er he
for ever in her sight, She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.
Ah who, when fading of itself away, Would cloud the sunshine of his little day! Now is the May of life. Careering round, Joy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground ! Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say, When the rich casket shone in bright array, “These are my jewels !” Well of such as he, When Jesus spake, well might his language be, “Suffer these little ones to come to me!” Rogers.
THE WILD BOY.
He sat upon the wave-wash'd shore,
Pass’d unregarded by;
He heeded not their strife-
And stopp'd the streams of life.
And offer'd no reply-
And threw the morsel by.
Of darkness hath been cast!
With dangers that were past.
The city of his home and heart,
So grand—so gaily bright,
Had vanish'd from his sight.
Had rent it from its hold
Its tale of terror told.
Had watch'd his youthful bloom—
All-all had met their doom! But the last night, a mother's voice
Breath'd over him in prayerShe perish'd-he was left no choice
But mute and blank despair, He sat alone, of all the crowd
That lately throng'à aroundThe ocean winds were piping loud,
He did not heed their sound ; They ask'd him of that city's fate,
But reason's reign was o'erHe pointed to her ruin'd state, Then fled—and spoke no more.
C. W. Thompson.
TO THE RAINBOW.
TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy
To teach me what thou art: