Who quits a world where strong temptations try, Goldsmith. DIRGE. The summer winds sing lullaby And the summer flowers spring tenderly, For oh! her life was short and sweet, A little while the beauteous gem Ah! then it withered on the stem, And we laid o'er her gentle frame the sod, But we know that her spirit is gone to God. The birds she loved so well to hear Her parting requiem sing; And her memory lives in the silent tear, Which the heart to the eye will bring; For her kind little feelings will ne'er be forgot Roscoe. THE WAY TO MAKE OLD AGE COMFORTABLE. You are old, father William,' the young man cried, • The few locks that are left you are grey; You are hale, father William, a hearty old man, • Now tell me the reason, I pray?" In the days of my youth,' father William replied, 'I remembered that youth would fly fast; And abused not my health and my vigour at first, You are old, father William,' the young man cried, And yet you lament not the days that are gone, In the days of my youth,' father William replied, " I remembered that youth would not last, 'I thought on the future whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past." You are old, father William,' the young man cried, And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, • Now tell me the reason, I pray?' ' I am cheerful, young man,' father William replied, In the days of my youth I remembered my God, Southey. THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY. I must tune up my harp's broken string, But yet such a theme will I sing, That I think she'll not ask me again; For I'll tell her-youth's blossom is blown, And that beauty, the flower, must fade : (And sure, if a lady can frown, She'll frown at the words I have said.) The smiles of the rose-bud how fleet! They come and as quickly they fly: The violet, how modest and sweet: Yet the spring sees it open and die. How snow white the lily appears, Ah, Beauty! of all things on earth Ah, fair ones! so sad is the tale; And where I intended to rail, I must lay down my harp, and must weep. But Virtue indignantly seized hand; The harp as it fell from my Thy tears and thy pity employ For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain,But those who my blessings enjoy Thy tears and thy pity disdain. For beauty alone ne'er bestowed • Time's hand, and the pestilence rage, Rev. C. Wolfe. |