But, oh! how soon its sweets are gone,
How soon it withering lies!
So, when the eve of life comes on,
Sweet beauty fades and dies.
Then since the fairest form that's made
Soon withering we shall find,
Let us possess what ne'er will fade,
The beauties of the mind.
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ;
Oh give relief, and heaven will bless your store.
These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect, drew me from my road;
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here, craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.
Oh, take me to your hospitable dome,
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miserably old.
Should I reveal the source of every grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repress'd.
Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn:
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age!
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ;
Oh give relief and Heaven will bless your store.
REV. THOMAS MOSS.
THERE is dew for the floweret,
And honey for the bee,
And bowers for the wild bird,
And love for you and me!
There are tears for the many,
And pleasures for the few;
But let the world pass on, dear,
There's love for me and you!
There is care that will not leave us,
And pain that will not flee;
But on our hearts unalter'd
Sits love 'tween you and me!
Our love, it ne'er was reckon'd,
Yet good it is and true :
It's half the world to me, dear,
It's all the world to you!
OLD JACOB AND THE SQUIRE.
DOST see that hall with massive wall,
And gothic nooks and niches?
The Squire lives there, in grief and care,
Intent on getting riches.
But where the trees wave in the breeze,
By gentle zephyrs driven,
Old Jacob prays through all his days,
And seeks for joy in heaven.
Oh tell me, ye of mirth and glee,
While death is drawing nigher,
Who fares the best in peace and rest,
Old Jacob or the Squire ?
THY fruit full well the school-boy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
So put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be asham'd to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers ;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull,
That cannot feel how fair.
Amid all beauty beautiful,
Thy tender blossoms are!
How delicate thy gauzy frill!
How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,
And 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd gray stone
Hath laid her weary head ;
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.
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