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REMINISCENCE.

I speak, 't is true, of passing things,
Which appertain to Time and Earth-
Happy is he whose spirit clings

To thoughts of more enduring worth,
To whom the day of death but brings
More joy than that of birth.

BERNARD Barton.

REMINISCENCE.

"My birth-day "-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!

And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white the mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said," were he ordained to run
His long career of life again,

• Fontenelle. Si je recommencais ma carriere, je ferai tout ce que j'ai fait.

REMINISCENCE.

He would do all that he had done."-
Ah, 't is not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,
Lavished unwisely, carelessly;
Of counsel mocked; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire;
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star.-
All this it tells; and could I trace
The imperfect picture o'er again,

With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!

How quickly all should melt away-
All-but that Freedom of the mind,

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Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly;

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark And comfortless and stormy round!

T. MOORE.

A MUSE, unskilled in venal praise,
Unstained with flattery's art;
Who loves simplicity of lays
Breathed ardent from the heart;
While gratitude and joy inspire,
Resumes the long unpractised lyre,
To hail, O H, thy natal morn.
No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves,
But twines with oak the laurel leaves,
Thy cradle to adorn.

* * * * * *

Swift to reward a parent's fears,
A parent's hopes to crown,

Roll on in peace, ye blooming years,
That rear him to renown;

When in his finished form and face
Admiring multitudes shall trace
Each patrimonial charm combined,
The courteous yet majestic mien,
The liberal smile, the look serene,
The great and gentle mind.

Yet though thou draw a nation's eyes,
And win a nation's love,

ODE.

Let not thy towering mind despise
The village and the grove.

No slander there shall wound thy fame,
No ruffian take his deadly aim,
No rival weave the secret snare:
For innocence, with angel smile,
Simplicity, that knows no guile,
And love and peace are there.

When winds the mountain oak assail,
And lay its glories waste,

Content may slumber in the vale,

Unconscious of the blast.

Through scenes of tumult while we roam,

The heart, alas! is ne'er at home,

It hopes in time to roam no more:
The mariner, not vainly brave,

Combats the storm, and rides the wave,
To rest at last on shore.

Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe,

How vain your mask of state!
The good alone have joy sincere,
The good alone are great:
Great, when, amid the vale of peace,
They bid the plaint of sorrow cease,
And hear the voice of artless praise;
As when along the trophied plain
Sublime they lead the victor train,
While shouting nations gaze.

BEATTIE.

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TWENTY-THREE.

ON ARRIVING AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth, Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near;

And inward ripeness doth much less appear, Than some more timely happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Hea

ven;

All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As even in my great Task-Master's eye.

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MILTON.