Why should the preacher ever rave Look round the world and we shall see, As well as wring the hopeless moan. Perchance the laden tree we shake Shall we forget each sunny morn, Of all the suits that we have worn, Oh! why should our own hands be twining 'Tis true that nightshade oft will bind us, ELIZA COOK, 1818 – ODE TO DUTY. OFFSPRING of holy Truth, Maternal guide of youth, Lo! to thy shrine no costly gifts I bring; Wilt not, O Duty, spurn Not mine the song of flame; Not mine the hero's name ; Yet wilt thou not my humble efforts bless? Thy voice with joy attend, And walk with thee in silent usefulness. Oft when I shuddering eye The dark futurity, That silent untried path! and meditate The sorrows, and the snares, Which there the young adventurer await : And think with sickening glance Upon life's awful chance, How great the danger, and the task how vast! From the dark torrent's brink I like a coward shrink, Fear to plunge in, and wildly wish it past. Then thou with frown severe Reprov'st my servile fear; "Why tremble thus, while Duty is thy pride? While beams my steady light, Fear not the blackest night, For ill shall ne'er befall thee at my side." And trust in thee I will; Oh, keep me near thee still, And teach me every terror to dismiss! And thou my hopes deceived, Thy yoke is easy, and thine end is bliss! Should Love's seductive wiles, Should Beauty's melting smiles, From prudence tempt my youthful heart to err, While phantoms of delight Dance by my dazzled sight, And eager Hope forbids me to defer. Oh, then oppose thy shield, But bow submissive, and await thy will: Be every sigh represt, And every fond aspiring hope be still! Yet never shall my heart Far-far the apathy of pride remove! The wound that ne'er can heal, Where'er thou lead'st the way, The summons I'll obey; Bid me come to thee o'er the yielding wave, My steps upholding guide, And when I'm sinking, stretch thine arm to save. E'en shall thy stern command Forbid my youthful hand To hold sweet converse with the much-loved lyre, I'd hang it up on high, And bid with fond adieu the Muse retire. Then, when in swift decay, Fast ebbs my life away, How sweet to hear thy soft approving voice! How will thine angel-smile The last sad hour beguile, The dying pillow smoothe-the sinking heart rejoice! -Poetical Register, 1810-11. ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED AT PLAY." TIRED of play! tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day? How hast thou spent it-restless one? Playing? But what hast thou done beside What promise of morn is left unbroken? There will come an eve to a longer day, |