A NOONTIDE REFLECTION. IN peerless grandeur rolls on high The proudly central orb of light, Diffusing through the cloudless sky A lustre most divinely bright: While all admiring Nature seems To recognise the warm embrace, And dancing in the solar beams, Reflects a corresponding grace. Yet soon this widely gilded sphere And wrapped in sable night appear Awhile to shun the fervid blaze; And soon, with all the mingled throng That revel in debasing crime, Be found eternally among The wrecks of antecedent time. PAIN AND PLEASURE. WHEN to the angry storms of day The settled calm of eve succeeds; And cheerful hope illumes the way That yet to more enjoyment leads, We deem the passing conflict o'er, When in the gloomy shades of night The gladdening tints of morn appear, And visions rack the tortured sight No longer with imposing fear, We rise forgetful of the smart That reached the uncomplaining heart. When pain forsakes his wonted grasp To rankle in some prouder form; And love as heretofore can clasp Its votary with a breast as warm,— We revel in the fond embrace, And little of the past retrace. And so when life with all its cares Shall merge in one profound abyss, And man's immortal spirit shares In heaven a happier sphere than this,— The troubles of the passing scene Will be as though they ne'er had been. A TALE. In a garden attached to a pretty retreat, Where pleasure asserted her reign, A Robin selected a prominent seat, From which at his will he could merrily greet The abode with his wintry strain. When the leaf of the lime and the flowering thorn Lay scattered abroad in the blast, His song could be heard in the neighbouring lawn, Saluting the light as it gilded the morn With hope of a sunny repast. Then emerging again from his night-hidden spray, To lavish his praise upon man, He hurried in visions of gladness away, And sported in feeding and singing all day, Unconscious of life's little span. For a boy that was wont to supply him with food, And gaze on his pretty red breast, Took up a thin pebble in frolicsome mood, And throwing it where the poor innocent stood, Consigned him at once to his rest. The unfortunate death of the Robin was made A grief to the sensitive boy, So truly that taking a knife for a spade, The bird in it he chanced to destroy. |