That form beloved he marks no more, Those scenes admired no more shall see; Those scenes are lovely as before, And she as fair-but where is he? No, no; the radiance is not dim, His was the pomp, the crowded hall, But where is now this proud display ? His riches, honours, pleasures, all Desire could frame; but where are they? And he, as some tall rock that stands Seem'd proudly strong-and where is he? The church-yard bears an added stone, The fire-side shows a vacant chair; Here Sadness dwells, and weeps alone, And Death displays his banner there. The life has gone, the breath has fled, And what has been no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread, O where are they, and where is he? E INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A Byron. Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery, if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Boatswain, a dog, who was born in Newfoundland, May, 1803, and died at Newstead, October, 1808. WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. I never knew but one, and here he lies! VERSES SENT TO A LADY, WITH A PRIZE CARNATION. Smyth. To her, who shall thy beauties know, And charm the maid that I adore. Would barter worlds with thee to share, In thine own history, if thou canst, impart The thought I cannot speak, that glows within my heart. Thus tell her, that in thee she views That I myself, with happy pride, But flower like thee I none descried : But tell her, I with reason fear'd, A stem like thine could ne'er sustain, The driving wind, the beating rain; I station'd at thy friendless side, And both in happy union tied : That wedded thus, safe could thy gentle form Pour forth its opening sweets, and mock the coming storm. Thus, sweet ambassadress, from me, Thus, beauteous flower, bespeak the fair, (For more is meant than meets the ear); Quick o'er her brightening features fly, Fire the blue lustre of her eye, Ah! then, thou loveliest flower! kind, faithful be, THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. Mrs. Hemans. COME near !-ere yet the dust Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, Come near! once more let kindred lips be press'd Look yet on this young face! What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, Gladdening its hearth and race? Dim grows the semblance, on man's thought impress'd, Ye weep, and all is well! For tears befit earth's partings!-Yesterday Where'er he moved-the welcome and the bless'd! Look yet on him, whose eye Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth! Was he not fair amongst the sons of earth, But not where Death has power, may love be bless'd! How may the mother's heart Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again? Is he not gone, our brightest and our best? Look on him! is he laid To slumber from the harvest or the chace? Death will not hoid unchanged his fairest guest His voice of mirth hath ceased Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place At the gay bridal feast! Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast; Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirit's light is quench'd-For him the past Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast His birthright's hope away! All is not here of our beloved and bless'd |