166 My son AVARICE. my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine; And ray those pleasures gild thy reign God keep thee frae thy mother's foes, And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, O, soon, to me, may summer suns And in the narrow house of death And the next flowers that deck the spring AVARICE. - George Herbert. MONEY, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe, Surely thou didst so little contribute * James the First, King of England. got, THE TRUMPET. 'Then forcing thee by fire he made thee bright; Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we 167 Have with our stamp and seal transferred our right,-Thou art the man, and man but dross to thee. Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich, THE TRUMPET.—Mrs. Hemans. THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land; A hundred banners to the breeze was that the sound of seas? A king to war went past. The chief is arming in his hall, The mother on her first-born son They come not back, though all be won, The bard hath ceased his song, and bound E'en for the marriage-altar crowned, The lover quits his bride. 168 FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. And all this haste, and change, and fear, By earthly clarion spread! How will it be when kingdoms hear FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. -Sir W. Scott. ENCHANTRESS, farewell! who so oft has decoyed me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell! and take with thee thy numbers wild speak ing, The language alternate of rapture and woe; O, none but some lover, whose heart-strings are break ing, The pang that I feel at our parting can know! Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary wan ing, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. 'T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; TRUE RICHES. 169 As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers, TRUE RICHES.-Walls. I AM not concerned to know Heir to the best part of me. Glittering stones, and golden things, I've a mighty part within, On the same young, flowery tree There are endless beauties more |