Or turn to blame, which Heaven itself inspires,

Who gave us health and strength and all desires?

The children play, and sin not ;-let the young

Still carol songs, as others too have sung;

Still

urge the fiery courser o'er the plain,

Proud of his glossy sides and flowing mane;

Still, when they meet in careless hours of mirth,
Laugh, as if Sorrow were unknown to earth;
Prattling sweet nothings, which, like buds of
flowers,

May turn to earnest thoughts and vigilant hours.
What boys can suffer, and weak women dare,
Let Indian and Crimean wastes declare:

Perchance in that gay group of laughers stand
Guides and defenders for our native land;-

Folly it is to see a wit in woe,

And hold youth sinful for the spirits' flow.

As thro' the meadow lands clear rivers run,

Blue in the shadow-silver in the sun

Till, rolling by some pestilential source,

Some factory work whose wheels with horrid

force

Strike the pure waters with their dripping

beams,

Send poison gushing to the crystal streams,

And leave the innocent things to whom God

gave

A natural home in that translucent wave

Gasping strange death, and floating down to

show

The evil working in the depths below,

So man can poison pleasure at its source;
Clog the swift sparkle of its rapid course,
Mix muddy morbid thoughts in vicious strife,
Till to the surface floats the death of life ;-

But not the less the stream itself was pure-
And not the less may blameless joy endure.

Careless, but not impure,-the joyous days Passed in a rapturous whirl; a giddy maze, Where the young Count and lovely Countess

drew

A new delight from every pleasure new.

They woke to gladness as the morning broke;
Their very voices kept, whene'er they spoke,

A ring of joy, a harmony of life,

That made you bless the husband and the

wife.

And every day the careless festal throng,

And every night the dance and feast and song,

Shared with young boon companions, marked

the time

As with a carillon's exulting chime;

Where those two entered, gloom passed out of

sight,

Chased by the glow of their intense delight.

So, till the day when over Dinan's walls
The Autumn sunshine of my story falls;
And the guests bidden, gather for the chase,
And the smile brightens on the lovely face
That greets them in succession as they come
Into that high and hospitable home.

Like a sweet picture doth the Lady stand,
Still blushing as she bows; one tiny hand,
Hid by a pearl-embroidered gauntlet, holds
Her whip, and her long robe's exuberant folds
The other hand is bare, and from her eyes
Shades now and then the sun, or softly lies,
With a caressing touch, upon the neck

Of the dear glossy steed she loves to deck

With saddle-housings worked in golden thread,

And golden bands upon his noble head.

White is the little hand whose taper fingers Smooth his fine coat, and still the lady lingers, Leaning against his side; nor lifts her head,

But gently turns as gathering footsteps tread; Reminding you of doves with shifting throats, Brooding in sunshine by their sheltering cotes. Under her plumèd hat her wealth of curls Falls down in golden links among her pearls, And the rich purple of her velvet vest

Slims the young waist, and rounds the graceful breast.

So, till the latest joins the happy Meet

Then springs she gladly to her eager feet;

And, while the white hand from her courser's side