A MUSE, unskilled in venal praise, * * * * * * Swift to reward a parent's fears, Roll on in peace, ye blooming years, When in his finished form and face Yet though thou draw a nation's eyes, ODE. Let not thy towering mind despise No slander there shall wound thy fame, When winds the mountain oak assail, Content may slumber in the vale, Through scenes of tumult while we roam, The heart, alas! is ne'er at home, It hopes in time to roam no more: The mariner, not vainly brave, Combats the storm, and rides the wave, To rest at last on shore. Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe, How vain your mask of state! BEATTIE. 83 84 TWENTY-THREE. ON ARRIVING AT THE AGE OF How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, Than some more timely happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Hea ven; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As even in my great Task-Master's eye. MILTON. ALWAYS REMEMBERED. 85 MEMORY. O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver, And turning all the past to pain. Thou, like the world, the oppressed oppressing, In thee must ever find a foe. COWPER. ALWAYS REMEMBERED. THY memory, as a spell Of love, comes o'er the mind; As music on the sea; As sunshine on the river;- So shall it be forever. ANON. 86 MEMORY. MEMORY. "Rather than have one bliss forgot, Moore. AND wouldst thou advise me to mix with the crowd, And strive to efface the remembrance of years; When, though mists and misfortune too often might shroud, One smile hath repaid me for long hours of tears? And say'st thou that memory only can feed The fever that preys on the desolate heart? Oh! thou knowest not, unless thou hast felt it indeed, What joy the remembrance of joy can impart ! There are things that are past, which I would not forget, For the brightest of pleasures that earth can now give; Their bliss had a mixture of sorrow, and yet Like stars in the night of my bosom they live. As on scenes we have passed, when by distance made soft, We gaze the more fondly the further we go, So, when years of our prime have gone over, how oft We turn with delight to past pleasure and woe. |