Telling a tale of mad, luxurious waste, Her motley weeds, and tears her thin grey locks, EPIGRAM. THEY say Despair has power to kill Then Hope had perish'd long ago: Yet still the twain keep up their "barful strife," 'Tis silly, sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.— IN THE MANNER OF A CHILD OF SEVEN YEARS OLD. AH! woe betide my bonny bride, For war is in the land, And far and wide the foemen ride Still as a dream the purple beam But ghastly bright, at the dead of night, Fair in the skies the sun will rise But never again our window pane For the warrior stern our cot will burn, It grew for years of smiles and tears, "Twill perish in an hour. Those firs were old, our grandsires told, And my soul it grieves that their needle leaves Beneath their shade how oft we played! In battle plain shall I be slain, And our sweet boy, our baby joy, He'll for his mother cry, Till the hot smoke, his voice shall choke, And then my bird will die. Green are the graves, and thick as waves, Within our holy ground And here, and there, an hillock fair, An infant's grave is found. Our fathers died, their whole fireside But vile as stones, our bleaching bones Nay, love, let's fly, to the hill so high, We'll leave the bower and tender flower But the wild blue bell shall bloom as well We shall not die, for all birds that fly And come the worst, w'ell be help'd the first, The mist beneath, that curls its wreath Around the hill-top hoar, There will we hide, my bonny bride, H SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT. LIKE one pale, flitting, lonely gleam Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight They come and go, and come again; They're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain Before they pass away. But whither go they? No one knows Their home, but yet they seem to say, That far beyond this gulf of woes There is a region of repose For them that pass away. |