"You run about, my little maid, If two are in the church-yard laid, "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, And there upon the ground I sit- And often after sun-set, Sir, The first that died was little Jane; Till God released her of her pain; So in the church-yard she was laid; Together round her grave we played, And when the ground was white with snow, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you then," said I, "O Master! we are seven. "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven ?” : "Twas throwing words away for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" MOORE. Mutability of Love. ALAS-how light a cause may move And sorrow but more closely tied ; That stood the storm, when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships, that have gone down at sea, A word unkind or wrongly taken- To spread the breach that words begin; Breaks into floods, that part for ever! He sits, with flowerets fetter'd round :- Some difference, of this dangerous kind, Chuse Eu'ning Bells. Those ev'ning bells, those ev'ning bells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, Those joyous hours are past away, And so 'twill be, when I am gone In the Morning of Life. In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh, it is not, believe me, in that happy time We can love, as in hours of less transport we may; Of our smiles, of our hopes 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is warmest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, First tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn; Then, then is the moment affection can sway With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nurs'd among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the Love, born of Sorrow, like Sorrow is true! In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid their dyes, Yet faint is the odour the flow'rs shed about; "Tis the clouds and the mists of our own weeping skies, That call the full spirit of fragrancy out. So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth, But 'tis only in grief true affection appears ;And, ev'n tho' to smiles it may first owe its birth, All the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears! Beaven. Go, wing thy flight from star to star, As the universe spreads its flaming wall; |