Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, The phantom of a blessed dream? Oh! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of extacy! That light of dreaming-soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years, Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring! And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye? What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on, than an infant's mind, Ere sin-destroy'd, or error dim, The glory of the seraphim? I feel thee pulling at my gown, Of right, good will, thy simple token. And thou must laugh and wrestle too,A mimic warfare with me waging! To make as wily lovers do, Thy after kindness more engaging! The wilding rose-sweet as thyself, And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ;I'd gladly part with worldly pelf To taste again thy youthful pleasure. But yet, for all thy merry look, Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell, or horn-book thumbing. Well, let it be! Through weal and wo, Thou know'st not now thy future range; Life is a motley, shifting show :And thou a thing of hope and change. TO A CHILD. BAILLIE. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And curly pate, and merry eye, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, And soft and fair, thou urchin sly? What boots it who with sweet caresses, Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, But far a-field thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats, half-lisped, halfspoken ; CHILDHOOD. SCOTT. CHILDHOOD, happy stage of life! Free from care and free from strife, Free from memory's ruthless reign, Fraught with scenes of former pain; Free from fancy's cruel skill, Fabricating future ill; Time, when all that meets the view, All can charm, for all is new. Then to toss the circling ball, Caught rebounding from the wall; Then the mimic ship to guide Down the kennel's dirty tide; Then the hoop's revolving pace Through the dusty street to chase; O what joy!-it once was mine Childhood, pleasing boon of thine! SCHOOL-BOY REMINISCENCES. COWPER. Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employed, What walks I loved; where grew my fa vourite oak; How gently I would lead him by the hand; How gently use the accent of command; What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild, Tho' mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet And how the man descended to the child; How well I loved with him, on Sabbath destroyed: By faltering out the name to fathers dear. O nature's language, with her looks combined, More precious far than periods thrice refined! O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile, I prize you more than Beauty's magic smile! Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm, I gaze with bliss unmingled with alarm. Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries. Almighty Power! his harmless life defend, And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send. Aud yet a wish will rise,-would I might live, Till added years his memory firmness give! A retrospective look, bedimmed with tears; YOUTH. ANON. YOUTH is the vision of a morn, That flies the coming day; It is the blossom on the thorn Which rude winds sweep away. It is the image of the sky, In glassy waters seen, When not a cloud appears to fly Across the blue serene. But when the waves begin to roar, 'Tis fleeting as the passing rays Of bright electric fire, That gild the pole with sudden blaze, And in that blaze expire. It is the morning's gentle gale, That, as it so fly blows, Scarce seems to sigh across the vale, Or bend the blushing rose. But soon the gath'ring tempests pour, For Care and Sorrow's morbid gloom, YOUTH ENTERING ON THE WORLD. BIDLAKE. OFT have I seen when musing on the shore, Unskilful infants grasp th' unwieldy oar, Push the frail bark into the swelling main, Borne by the rapid tide, pant to regain The less'ning land, and, shrieking weep too late The gaping horrors of tempestuous fate! True picture of our unsuspecting age, Who long to stretch where fatal billows rage: 'Gainst our own heaven like angels we rebel, And quit the realms where during raptures dwell; Pant for a wing to range the World around, The World-how swoons my soul to hear the sound; Here Obligation, e'en beneath the wing That hatches it to life, will fix a sting: Here worth is trampled down by mounted Pride, And Modesty by Av'rice push'd aside. Such slow discernment guides the stupid crowd, That Impudence for Talent is allow'd: With ev'ry kindness let thy bosom glow; Detraction's pois'nous breath thy fame shall blot, Or Envy's microscope pry out a spot! As stars that aid the gloom of during night, Let potent Wisdom smooth the wrinkled brow, And sweet Complacence soften all below. See in each rising Sun new comfort giv'n And when it sets behold a nearer Heav'n! The World-where Pleasure flies the grasp- The few rare gems of Friendship here im YOUNG. SELF-FLATTERED, unexperienced, high in hope, And fondly dream each wind and star our friend: All in some darling enterprise embark'd; But where is he can fathom its event! Amid a multitude of artless hands, Ruin's sure perquisite, her lawful prize! Some steer aright, but the black blast blows hard, CONSEQUENCES OF THE FALL. POLLOK. HEAR what they were: The progeny of Sin A violent fever seized his soul; the heavens Above, the earth beneath, seemed glowing brass, Heated seven times; he heard dread voices speak, And mutter horrid prophecies of pain, The Fury round his torrid temples flapped It was the suffering began thou sawest The other, Disappointment seemed Negation of delight. It was a thing Sluggish and torpid, tending towards death, Its breath was cold, and made the sportive blood, Stagnant, and dull, and heavy, round the wheels Of life. The roots of that whereon it blew Decayed, and with the genial soul no more Held sympathy; the leaves, the branches drooped, And mouldered slowly down to formless dust; Not tossed and driven by violence of winds, But withering where they sprung, and rotting there. Long disappointed, disappointed still, THE DISTEMPER OF THE MIND. THOMSON. THE distempered mind Has lost that concord of harmonious powers Which forms the soul of happiness, and all Is off the poise within; the passions all Have burst their bounds, and Reason half extinct, |