We should not mourn the closing flow'r Can never set. ELEANOR DICKINSON. The Cast-away Ship. Her mighty sails the breezes swell, When on her wide and trackless path Vain guesses all! Her destiny Is dark-she ne'er was heard of more! The moon hath twelve times changed her form, 'Mid skies of calm and scowl of storm, Since from her port that ship hath gone ; But ocean keeps its secret well; No And though we know that all is o'er, eye hath seen-no tongue can tell Oh! were her tale of sorrow known, 'Twere something to the broken heart; By which her doom we may explore ; And ne'er was seen or heard of more! JOHN MALCOLM. The Philosopher's Scales. What were they?—-you ask: you shall presently see Together with articles, small or immense, The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire, Which retain'd all the wit that had ever been there; As a weight he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, Containing the prayer of the penitent thief; When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, As to bound like a ball on the roof of his cell. Next time he put in Alexander the Great, With a garment that Dorcas had made-for a weight; And though clad in armour from sandals to crown, The hero rose up and the garment went down. A long row of alms-houses, amply endow'd By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud, Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest By those mites the poor widow dropp'd into the chest; Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a bounce. By further experiments (no matter how) He found that ten chariots weigh'd less than one plough. A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale, Though balanced by only a tenpenny nail. A lord and a lady went up at full sail, When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale. At last the whole world was bowl'd in at the grate, With the soul of a beggar to serve as a weight;When the former sprung up with so strong a rebuff, That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roof— While the scale with the soul in't so mightily fell, That it jerk'd the philosopher out of his cell. JANE TAYLOR. The Shadow on the Sun-Dial. Upon yon dial-stone Behold the shade of time For ever circling on and on, Than if the thunders of the spheres Peal'd forth its march to mortal ears. Day is the time for toil; Night balms the weary breast; Stars have their vigils; seas awhile But round and round the shadow creeps In beauty fading fast Its silent trace appears, And-where a phantom of the past Gleams Tadmor o'er oblivion's waves, Before the ceaseless shade, That round the world doth sail, Its towers and temples bow the head The Pyramids look pale The festal halls grow hush'd and cold— Coeval with the sun Its silent course began, And still its phantom-race shall run JOHN MALCOLM. : |