Then shun the spot, my youthful friends; work on while 1 yet you may; Let not old age overtake you as you slothfully delay, Lest you should gaze around you, and discover, with a sigh, You have reached the house of "Never" by the street of By-and-bye! THE PASSIONS. BY COLLINS. WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young, First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings: And swept, with hurried hands, the strings. With woeful measures, wan Despair, But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, She called on Echo still through all her song ; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung, but, with a frown, He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe; And, ever and anon, he beat The double drum with furious heat: And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien; While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy slumbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; With eyes upraised, as one inspired, And, from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; Love of peace and lonely musing, But, oh! how altered was its sprightly tone, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; To some unwearied minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amid his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, A COLLOQUY WITH MYSELF. BY BERNARD BARTON. As I walked by myself, I talked to myself, And the questions myself then put to myself, Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself Their responses the same should be, Oh! look well to thyself, and beware of thyself, Or so much the worse for thee. What are Riches? Hoarded treasures Yet, like earth's most fleeting pleasures, What are Pleasures? When afforded But by gauds which pass away, What is Fashion? Ask of Folly, What is moping Melancholy? What is Truth? Too stern a preacher What is Friendship? If well founded, Like the treacherous sand below. What is Love? If earthly only, Hearts that hailed its transient light: But when calm, refined, and tender, What are Hopes, but gleams of brightness, What are Fears? Grim phantoms, throwing Every moment darker growing, If we yield unto their sway. What is Mirth? A flash of lightning, Patience? More than sunshine brightening Sorrow's path, and labour's doom. What is Time? A river flowing |