So, in life's youthful bloomy prime,
We sport away the fleeting time,

Regardless of our fate;
But, by some unexpected blow,
Our giddy follies we shall know,

And mourn them when too late.

MIDNIGHT.

ANONYMOUS.

'Tis midnight deep: o'er all the vacant plains
Thick darkness sits, and awful stillness reigns.
The feather'd songsters of the grove no more
Chaunt in shrill strains their amorous ditties o'er;
But, cold and shivering on some friendly spray,
In silence pass the cheerless hours away.
Nor voice nor sound obtrudes, but where alone
The distant cataract's hoarse and hollow moan,
Echoing, provokes the wakeful house-dog's bark,
While faithful to his charge, amid the dark,
He views the gliding moon with jealous eye,
And growls at his own shadow sitting by.
Or when from dreary yew, or mouldering tower
With awful ivy hung, or dusky bower,
The wailing owl, that ceaseless all night long
Shrieks on the gloom, and plies her boding song :
Or pausing oft, where glides the lonely flood
In peaceful murmurs to the pendent wood,
With many a soothing, many a plaintive strain,
Her young sweet Philomel laments in vain.
All else is silence, solemn and profound,
Whilst Melancholy spreads her horrors round.
Creation slumbers; Nature's self, opprest
With long-exerted effort, sinks to rest,
And nodding o'er her children, seems to share
One common influence, and forget her care.

SIGHS.

MRS HENRY ROLLS.

THERE is a sigh-that, half supprest,

Seems scarce to heave the bosom fair ; It rises from the spotless breast,

The first faint dawn of tender care.

There is a sigh-so soft, so sweet,

It breathes not from the lip of woe; 'Tis heard where conscious lovers meet,

Wbilst yet untold young passion's glow.

There is a sigh-short, deep, and strong,

That on the lip of rapture dies ; It floats mild evening's shade along,

When meet the fond consenting eyes.

There is a sigh-that speaks regret,

Yet seems scarce conscious of its pain; It tells of bliss remember'd yet,

Of bliss that ne'er must wake again.

There is a sigh-that, deeply breath'd,

Bespeaks the bosom's secret woe; It says the flowers which Love had wreath'd,

Are wither'd, ne'er again to blow. There is a sigh-that slowly swells,

Then deeply breathes its load of care; It speaks that in that bosom dwells

That last worst pang, fond love's despair.

SMILES.

MRS HENRY ROLLS.

WHAT is that smile that o'er the cheek

Of artless blooming childhood strays ; That revels in the dimple sleek

That charms the mother's tender gaze?

'Tis the bright sun of April's morn,

That rises with unsullied ray; Nor marks the clouds, that swift are borne

To wrap in shades the future day!

What is that soft, that languid smile,

That mingles with a tender sigh; Light spreads the timid blush the while,

And sweetly sinks the melting eye ?

'Tis the bright dew-drop on the rose,

Sweet remnant of the early shower, That will its ripen'd leaves unclose,

And to full fragrance spread the flower!,

What is that smile, whose rapt'rous glow

Passion's impetuous breath inspires, Whilst Pleasure's gaudy blossoms blow,

And the eye beams with guilty fires ?

'Tis the volcano's baleful blaze,

That pours around a fatal light; Whose victim dies that stops to gaze;

Whence safety is but found in flight!

What is that sad, that transient smile,

That dawns upon the lip of woe; That checks the deep-drawn sigh awhile,

And stays the tear that starts to flow ?

'Tis but a veil cast o'er the heart,

When youth's gay dreams have pass'd away; When joy's faint ling'ring rays depart,

And the last gleams of hope decay !

What is that bright, that fearful smile,

Quick flashing o'er the brow of care ; When fades each fruit of mental toil,

And nought remains to check despair ?

'Tis the wild lurid lightning's gleam,

Swift bursting from a stormy cloud; That spreads a bright destructive beam,

Then sinks into its sable shroud !

What is that smile, calm, fix'd at last,

On the hoar brow of reverend age,
When the world's changing scenes are past,

And nearly clos'd life's varied page ?

'Tis the rich glowing western beam,

Bright spreading o'er the dark’ning skies ; That shows, by its mild parting gleam,

A cloudless, heavenly morn shall rise !

THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

BARNABY GOOGE.

The rushing rivers that do run,

The valleys sweet, adorned new,

That lean their sides against the sun,

With flowers fresh of sundry hue; Both ash, and elm, and oak so high, Do all lament my woful cry.

While winter, black with hideous storms,

Doth spoil the ground of summer's green, While spring-time sweet the leaf returns,

That late on tree could not be seen ; While mmer burns, while harvest reigns, Still, still do rage my restless pains.

No ease I find in all my smart,

But endless torment I sustain;
Since first, alas! my woful heart

By sight of thée was forc'd to 'plain;
Since that I lost my liberty,
Since that thou mad'st a slave of me.

My heart, that once abroad was free,

Thy beauty hath in durance brought; Once reason rul’d and guided me,

And now is wit consum'd with thought. Once I rejoic'd above the sky; And now, for thee, alas ! I die.

Once I rejoic'd in company;

And now, my chief and whole delight
Is from my friends away to fly,

And keep, alone, my wearied sprite.
Thy face divine, and my desire,
From flesh have me transform'd to fire.

O Nature, thou that first did'st frame

My lady's hair of purest gold; Her face of crystal to the same,

Her lips of precious rubies' mould;