O! I should think, that fragrant bed By one short hour of transport there! More blest than me, thus shall ye live While I, alas! no distant date, Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name. GIFFORD. WRITTEN TWO YEARS AFTER THE I WISH I was where Anna lies, Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! for when she died, I lost my all; and life has proved, But who, when I am turn'd to clay, And weeds that have "no business there?" And who with pious hand shall bring The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and would fate allow Should visit still, should still deplore,- Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, Thy grave must then undeck'd remain, And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy spirits, frolicksome as good, Thy patience by no wrongs subdued, GIFFORD. THE PROGRESS OF LIFE. I DREAM'D-I saw a little rosy child, Twas changed. One summer's day I stepp'd aside, To let him pass; his face had manhood's seeming, And that full eye of blue was fondly beaming On a fair maiden whom he call'd "his Bride!" Once more; 'twas autumn, and the cheerful fire The heavens were clouded!-and I heard the tone Of a slow moving bell-the white-haired man was gone! ANON. THE BUTTERFLY'S BIRTH-DAY. THE shades of night at distance fled, From floating clouds of pearly hue, And from the Blackbird's mellow throat From mountain side, and shadowy dell. When bursting forth to life and light, Launch'd in full splendour on the day! Unconscious of a mother's care, No infant wretchedness she knew; But as she felt the vernal air, At once to full perfection grew. Her slender form, ethereal light, Her velvet-textured wings enfold, Trembling with joy, awhile she stood, And balanced oft her broider'd wings, Go! child of pleasure, range the fields, Share all the joys that Spring can give; Partake what bounteous Summer yields, And live while yet 'tis time to live. Go, sip the rose's fragrant dew, And let me trace thy vagrant flight, But hark! while thus I musing stand, They cease; but still a voice I hear, Yet start not-on thy closing eyes, Shall the poor worm, that shocks thy sight, And yet the emblem teach in vain? Ah, where were once her golden eyes, Like thee this happy reptile lived, And shalt thou, number'd with the dead, Is this the bound of power divine, Go, Mortal! in thy reptile state, Go, and the joyful truth relate, Frail child of earth, high heir to heaven!" ROSCOE. POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood-street, when day-light appears, There's a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years, Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard |