Unchanging still from year to year, Thy vernal constellations cheer Perhaps from Nature's earliest May, Thy self-renewing race Have breath'd their balmy lives away And O, till Nature's final doom, This bank their cradle and their tomb, J. MONTGOMERY. A WISH. MINE be a cot beside the hill; The swallow oft beneath my thatch, Around my ivy'd porch shall spring The village church, among the trees, ROGERS. PITY FOR POOR LITTLE SWEEPS. THE morn was dark, the wind was high, And from the moonless, starless sky, An hour it was when sleep seem'd dear, 'Tis pleasant, on a summer night, Through opening clouds or leafy trees, And 'tis delightful, just as day To hear the first bird's matin lay, But on a stormy winter morn, Such lot was mine, not long ago; But soon the doleful whine of " Sweep!" For who could sleep, while such a strain, Through sufferings varied, new, and strange? The sea-boy, in the fearful din Of wild waves crested white, Constrain❜d the topmast's height to win, In some tempestuous night, His giddy, awful task may scan The winds may rock him to and fro, Of danger brav'd, of honour won And cheering thoughts within may glow But thou, poor abject child! whose cry Poor outcast! what a doom is thine! To brave the stormy winter's morn, To have been train'd to such a course To follow it with pain, perforce, Through all its varied woes; A weary lot is thine, indeed, Yet thou, poor child! wast once, perchance, A widow's darling joy ; Whose speaking smile, and sparkling glance, Dwelt fondly on her boy; Whose heart for thee fram'd schemes of bliss, Whose lips press'd thine with many a kiss. But she is dead! and thou art left Of friends, of parents, hope bereft, What though to outward sight thou wear Of what it should enshrine,- Yet hast thou an immortal soul, A solemn thought this, sure, should be BARTON. LUCY AND HER FAVOURITES. THE sky-lark hath perceiv'd his prison door Lucy's own puss, and Lucy's own dear bird, Her foster'd favourites both for many a day, That which the tender-hearted girl preferr'd, She in her fondness knew not sooth to say. For if the sky-lark's pipe were shrill and strong, And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please, Yet Pussybel could breathe a fireside song As winning, when she lay on Lucy's knees. Both knew her voice, and each alike would seek Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to gain : How faintly then may words her sorrow speak, When by the one she sees the other slain. |