And how, thought I, at the morrow's rise Will these fair young sleepers ope their eyes? They will turn from the pencil, the globe and book, A longing and feverish glance to cast On the joys and the pains of the evening past. Parents! 'tis all too soon to press WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR? THY neighbour? It is he whom thou Thy neighbour? "Tis the fainting poor, Whose eye with want is dim, Whom hunger sends from door to door Go thou, and succour him. Thy neighbour? "Tis that weary man Whose years are at their brim, Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain; Go thou, and comfort him. Thy neighbour? "Tis the heart bereft Of every earthly gem; Widow and orphan helpless left: Go thou, and shelter them. Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave, Fettered in thought and limb, Whose hopes are all beyond the graveGo thou, and ransom him. L. E. LANDON. PEACE to thine ashes, lady! Nor cast the smallest shade upon Too often hath thy spirit touched Some harp-string of my mind Too often will thy melody A heartfelt echo find! I would that thou hadst walked abroad With freer, kindlier air, And seen the finger of a God Stamp joy and gladness there; I would that thou hadst turned thee from The moody and the wild, And knelt thee down submissively, Religion's gifted child. What though thy Helicon hath been A bitter fount of tears; What though a blighting grief hath passed Upon thy youthful years ;— Our early dreams!-'tis meet that they Should vanish from our view For He who made the heart of man, Must have the glory too! "Twas never meant that we should lose Our lives in vain regret; The stream, obstructed in one course, May take another yet; And beautify and vivify Some other region, where It had not seemed its destiny Oh! had thy splendid intellect Been laid on Heaven's shrine, And had the Christian's humble hope, Its higher faith been thine, Thou hadst not nursed that morbid mood, That melancholy spell, Which found, alas! in many a heart, An echo all too well. |