Be cheerful as the lark that o'er yon hill, Repine, that, through the day, the sunny beam Is lost in transient shadow. Who, that lives, Hath not his portion of calamity? Or who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom ? In quick, strong language, tells the daring wretch THE WANDERER'S ROUNDELAY. Earth does not bear another wretch Yet not for me a hand will stretch, Will not a thought to woe incline; Too much their own to think of mine; And few shall be The tears for me, When I am laid beneath the tree. There was a time when joy ran high, Tears did not always dim this eye, Or sorrow always stain this cheek; And even now I often dream, When sunk in feverish broken sleep, Of things that were, and things that seem, And friends that love, then wake to weep That few shall be The tears for me, When I am laid beneath the tree. Travellers lament the clouded skies, Just seen, and slighted, and forgot; The tears for me, When I am laid beneath the tree, Yet welcome, hour of parting breath, Come sure unerring dart-there's room For sorrow in the arms of death, For disappointment in the tomb: What though the slumbers there be deep, Though not by kind remembrance blest, To slumber is to cease to weep, To sleep forgotten is to rest; Oh sound shall be The rest for me, When I am laid beneath the tree! Henry Neele. TO THE MEMORY OF A VERY PROMISING CHILD. Written after witnessing her last moments. I cannot weep, yet I can feel The pangs that rend a parent's breast; What art thou, spirit undefined, That passest with man's breath away; A moment gone, I looked and lo! Sensation throbbed through all her frame ; That bosom's motion went and came. The next, a nameless change was wrought, Death nipt in twain life's brittle thread, And, in an instant, feeling, thought, Sensation, motion-all were fled ! Those lips shall never more repeat The welcome lesson conned with care; Or breathe at even, in accents sweet, To heaven the well-remembered prayer! Those little hands shall ne'er essay That heart is still-no more to move; That cheek is wan-no more to bloom, Or dimple in the smile of love, That speaks a parent's welcome home. And thou with years and sufferings bowed, |