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'In the days of my youth,' father William replied,
'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,
THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY.
I must tune up my harp's broken string,
But yet such a theme will I sing,
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;
To-morrow must vanish away.
Ah, Beauty! of all things on earth
Yet beauty with youth has its birth,
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
'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
The music of the midnight wake,
Its streams that weep o'er past delight,
The soul of sorrow this the night,
It sinks upon the heart like balm,
And nights of beauty—peace and calm,
Now, through the silence deep and wide
Like some lone spirit's anthem sighed
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