Why should man's high aspiring mind Burn in him with so proud a breath, When all his haughty views can find In this world yields to Death?

The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, The rich, the poor, and great, and small, Are each but worm's anatomies To strew his quiet hall.

Power may make many earthly G.o.ds, Where gold and bribery's guilt prevails, But Death's unwelcome, honest odds Kick o'er the unequal scales.

The flatter'd great may clamours raise Of power, and their own weakness hide, But Death shall find unlooked-for ways To end the farce of pride.

An arrow hurtel'd e'er so high, With e'en a giant's sinewy strength, In Time's untraced eternity Goes but a pigmy length; Nay, whirring from the tortured string, With all its pomp of hurried flight, 'T is by the skylark's little wing Outmeasured in its height.

Just so man's boasted strength and power Shall fade before Death's lightest stroke, Laid lower than the meanest flower, Whose pride o'er-top't the oak; And he who, like a blighting blast, Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms Shall be himself destroyed at last By poor despised worms.

Tyrants in vain their powers secure, And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown, For unawed Death at last is sure To sap the Babels down.

A stone thrown upward to the skye Will quickly meet the ground agen; So men-G.o.ds of earth's vanity Shall drop at last to men;

And Power and Pomp their all resign, Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls.

Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrine As bare as prison walls, Where the poor suffering wretch bows down To laws a lawless power hath pa.s.sed; And pride, and power, and king, and clown Shall be Death's slaves at last.

Time, the prime minister of Death!

There's nought can bribe his honest will.

He stops the richest tyrant's breath And lays his mischief still.

Each wicked scheme for power all stops, With grandeurs false and mock display, As eve's shades from high mountain tops Fade with the rest away.

Death levels all things in his march; Nought can resist his mighty strength; The palace proud, triumphal arch, Shall mete its shadow's length.

The rich, the poor, one common bed Shall find in the unhonoured grave, Where weeds shall grow alike o'er head Of tyrant and of slave.

THE WANTON CHLOE--A PASTORAL

Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose, And her love might be reckoned no less, But her bosom so freely bestows That all may a portion possess.

Her smiles would be cheering to see, But so freely they're lavished abroad That each silly swain, like to me, Can boast what the wanton bestowed.

Her looks and her kisses so free Are for all, like the rain and the sky; As the blossom love is to the bee, Each swain is as welcome as I.

And though I my folly can see, Yet still must I love and adore, Though I know the love whispered to me Has been told to so many before.

'T is sad that a bosom so fair, And soft lips so seemingly sweet, Should study false ways, to ensnare, And breathe in their kisses deceit.

But beauty's no guide to the best: The rose, that out-blushes the morn, While it tempts the glad eye to its breast, Will pierce the fond hand with a thorn.

Yet still must I love, silly swain!

And put up with all her deceit, And try to be jealous, in vain, For I cannot help thinking her sweet.

I see other swains in her bower, And I sigh, and excuse what I see, While I say to myself, "Is the flower Any worse when it's kissed by the bee?"

THE OLD SHEPHERD

'T is pleasant to bear recollections in mind Of joys that time hurries away-- To look back on smiles that have pa.s.sed like the wind, And compare them with frowns of to-day.

'T was the constant delight of Old Robin, forsooth, On the past with clear vision to dwell-- To recount the fond loves and the raptures of youth, And tales of lost pleasures to tell.

"'T is now many years," like a child, he would say, "Since I joined in the sports of the green-- Since I tied up the flowers for the garland of May, And danced with the holiday queen.

My memory looks backward in sorrowful pride, And I think, till my eyes dim with tears, Of the past, where my happiness withered and died, And the present dull, desolate years.

I love to be counting, while sitting alone, With many a heart-aching sigh, How many a season has rapidly flown, And springs, with their summers, gone by, Since Susan the pride of the village was deemed, To whom youth's affections I gave; Whom I led to the church, and beloved and esteemed, And followed in grief to the grave.

Life's changes for many hours musings supply; Both the past and the present appear; I mark how the years that remain hurry by, And feel that my last must be near.

The youths that with me to man's summer did bloom Have dwindled away to old men, And maidens, like flowers of the Spring, have made room For many new blossoms since then.

I have lived to see all but life's sorrows pa.s.s by, Leaving changes, and pains, and decay, Where nought is the same but the wide-spreading sky, And the sun that awakens the day.

The green, where I tended my sheep when a boy, Has yielded its pride to the plough; And the shades where my infancy revelled in joy The axe has left desolate now.

Yet a bush lingers still, that will urge me to stop-- (What heart can such fancies withstand?) Where Susan once saw a bird's nest on the top, And I reached her the eggs with my hand: And so long since the day I remember so well, It has stretched to a sizable tree, And the birds yearly come in its branches to dwell, As far from a giant as me.

On a favourite spot, by the side of a brook, When Susan was just in her pride, A ripe bunch of nuts from her ap.r.o.n she took, To plant as she sat by my side.

They have grown up with years, and on many a bough Cl.u.s.ter nuts like their parents agen, Where shepherds no doubt have oft sought them ere now, To please other Susans since then.

The joys that I knew when my youth was in prime, Like a dream that's half ended, are o'er; And the faces I knew in that changeable time Are met with the living no more.

I have lived to see friends that I loved pa.s.s away With the pleasures their company gave: I have lived to see love, with my Susan, decay, And the gra.s.s growing green on her grave."

TO A ROSEBUD IN HUMBLE LIFE

Sweet, uncultivated blossom, Reared in Spring's refreshing dews, Dear to every gazer's bosom, Fair to every eye that views;-- Opening bud, whose youth can charm us, Thine be many a happy hour: Spreading rose, whose beauties warm us-- Flourish long, my lovely flower.

Though pride look disdainful on thee, Scorning scenes so mean as thine, Although fortune frown upon thee, Lovely blossom, ne'er repine: Health unbought is ever with thee, Which their wealth can never gain; Innocence doth garments give thee, Such as fashion apes in vain.

When fit time and reason grant thee Leave to quit the parent tree, May some happy hand transplant thee To a station suiting thee.

On some lover's faithful bosom May'st thou then thy sweets resign; And may each unfolding blossom Open charms as sweet as thine.

Till that time may joys unceasing Thy bard's every wish fulfil.

When that's come may joys increasing Make thee blest and happier still.

Flourish fair, thou flower of Jessies, Pride of each admiring swain-- Envy of despairing la.s.ses-- Queen of Walkherd's lovely plain.

THE TRIUMPHS OF TIME

[From "The Champion"]

Emblazoned Vapour! Half-eternal Shade!

That gathers strength from ruin and decay;-- Emperor of empires! (for the world hath made No substance that dare take thy shade away;) Thy banners nought but victories display: In undisturbed success thou'rt grown sublime: Kings are thy subjects, and their sceptres lay Round thy proud footstool: tyranny and crime Thy serving va.s.sals are. Then hail, victorious Time!

The elements that wreck the marble dome Proud with the polish of the artisan-- Bolts that crash shivering through the humble home, Traced with the insignificance of man-- Are architects of thine, and proudly plan Rich monuments to show thy growing prime: Earthquakes that rend the rocks with dreadful span, Lightnings that write in characters sublime, Inscribe their labours all unto the praise of Time.

Thy palaces are kingdoms lost to power; The ruins of ten thousand thrones thy throne; Thy crown and sceptre the dismantled tower, A place of kings, yet left to be unknown, Now with triumphing ivy overgrown-- Ivy oft plucked on Victory's brow to shine-- That fades in crowns of kings, preferring stone; It only prospers where they most decline, To flourish o'er their fate, and live alone in thine.

Thy dwellings are in ruins made sublime.