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'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,
'Let the cause thy attention engage;
'In the days of my youth I remembered my God,
'And He hath not forgotten my age.'



I must tune up my harp's broken string,
For the fair has commanded the strain;

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,

Yet the life of a lily's a day;
And the snow that it equals, in tears

To-morrow must vanish away.

Ah, Beauty! of all things on earth
How many thy charms most desire!

Yet beauty with youth has its birth,
And beauty with youth must expire.

Ah, fair ones! so sad is the tale;

That my song in my sorrow I steep; And where I intended to rail,

I must lay down my harp, and must weep. But Virtue indignantly seized

The harp as it fell from my hand; Serene was her look, though displeased,

As she uttered her awful command.

'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

Such a charm as Religion has lest; And the cheek of a belle never glowed

With a smile like the. smile of content.

'Time's hand, and the pestilence rage,

No hue, n« cemplexion can brave; For beauty must, yield to. old age,

But I will not yield tm the. grave.'

Rev. C. Wolfe. THE WAKE.

How sweet upon my slumbers break
Those solemn sounds with dying fall;

The music of the midnight wake,
When silence sleeps on all!—

Its streams that weep o'er past delight,
And soften into sighs, prolong

The soul of sorrow this the night,
Which breathes on Scottish song.

It sinks upon the heart like balm,
Of brighter days the memory brings;

And nights of beauty—peace and calm,
All fled on angel wings.

Now, through the silence deep and wide
The soft aerial accents swoon;

Like some lone spirit's anthem sighed
Beneath the midnight moon.

And sweet as that which charmed the hours

From Chaos, when Creation sprung; And on green Eden's early bowers

The stars of moming sung.

Or, such as tranced lone shepherds, when

The angels hymned a Saviour's birth, In strains that breathed good will to men,

And promised peace to earth.

Oh thus may sleepless sorrow's ear

Be ever soothed with music's strain, The purest—best of pleasures here,

Which leaves nor sting nor stain.

John Malcolm, Esq.


And is it in the flight of threescore years
To push eternity from human thought?
To smother souls immortal in the dust!
A soul immortal spending all her fires,
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness;
Thrown into tumult, raptured, or alarmed,

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