Forth trips a laughing dark-eyed lass, Upon your right hand let her look, THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. THE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow, Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care? Why steals that tear across her cheek? she sees her first gray hair. Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace; His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face; Yet she might mingle in the dance, where maidens gaily trip, So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip. The faded form is often marked by sorrow more than years,― The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears; The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest, And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest. But she hath been a happy wife: the lover of her youth May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth; A sense of slight,-of loneliness,-hath never banished sleep: Her life hath been a cloudless one; then wherefore doth she weep? She looked upon her raven locks, what thoughts did they recall? Oh! not of nights when they were decked for banquet or for ball; They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to check, With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck. She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair, And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there; She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls she prized so much. And now she sees her first gray hair! oh, deem it not a crime For her to weep, when she beholds the first footmark of Time! She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase, And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease. 'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane; Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom again— Ah, lady! heed the monitor! thy mirror tells thee truth; Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth: Go! bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair "Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first gray hair! THE NEGLECTED CHILD. I NEVER was a favourite,— On me, with half the tenderness That blessed her fairer child: And yet I strove to please with all I strove to please,-and infancy I did not dare to throw myself How blessed are the beautiful! Love watches o'er their birth; Oh, beauty! in my nursery I learned to know thy worth: For even there I often felt Forsaken and forlorn; And wished-for others wished it too I never had been born! I'm sure I was affectionate; But in my sister's face There was a look of love, that claimed But when I raised my lip to meet But, oh! that heart too keenly felt I saw my sister's lovely form With gems and roses decked: I did not covet them; but oft, I envied her the privilege But soon a time of triumph came,— For sickness o'er my sister's form The features, once so beautiful, Now wore the hue of death; And former friends shrank fearfully From her infectious breath. 'Twas then, unwearied day and night, And fearlessly upon my breast She lived!-and loved me for my care, My grief was at an end; I was a lonely being once, But now I have a friend. UPON THY TRUTH RELYING. THEY say we are too young to love,— In scorn they bid us both renounce The fond vows we have plighted. I know that Pleasure's hand will throw I know how lonesome I shall find I'll kiss each word that's traced by thee,- When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by, In silent rapture gazing; And, oh! how proud of being loved By her they have been praising! But should Detraction breathe thy name, I'd love thee,-laud thee,-trust thee still,- E'en those who smile to see us part, Shall see us meet with wonder; Such trials only make the heart That truly loves grow fonder. |