Be cheerful as the lark that o'er yon hill,
In nature's language, wild, yet musical,
Hails the Creator! nor thus sullenly
Repine, that, through the day, the sunny beam
Of lustrous fortune gilds the palace roof,
While thy short path, in this wild labyrinth,
Is lost in transient shadow.

Who, that lives,

Hath not his portion of calamity ?

Or who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom?
The fever throbbing in the tyrant's veins,

In quick, strong language, tells the daring wretch
That he is mortal, like the poorest slave
Who wears his chain, yet healthfully suspires.
The sweetest rose will wither, while the storm
Passes the mountain thistle. The bold bird,
Whose strong eye braves the ever-burning orb,
Falls like the summer fly, and has, at most,
But his allotted sojourn. Exiled man!
Be cheerful! Thou art not a fugitive!
All are thy kindred-all thy brothers, here—
The hoping-trembling creatures-of one God!

Mrs Robinson.

THE WANDERER'S ROUNDELAY,

Earth does not bear another wretch

So helpless, so forlorn as I;
Yet not for me a hand will stretch,
And not for me a heart will sigh.
The happy, in their happiness,

Will not a thought to woe incline;
The wretched feel a fierce distress,

Too much their own to think of mine;
And few shall be

The tears for me,

When I am laid beneath the tree.

There was a time when joy ran high,

And every sadder thought was weak; Tears did not always dim this eye,

Or sorrow always stain this cheek; And even now I often dream,

When sunk in feverish broken sleep, Of things that were, and things that seem, And friends that love, then wake to weep

That few shall be

The tears for me,

When I am laid beneath the tree.

Travellers lament the clouded skies,
The moralist the ruined hall,
And when the unconscious lily dies,
How many mark and mourn its fall!-
But, ah! no dirge for me will ring,

No stone will mark my lonely spot;
I am a suffering, withering thing,
Just seen, and slighted, and forgot;
And few shall be

The tears for me,

When I am laid beneath the tree,

Yet welcome, hour of parting breath,
Come sure unerring dart-there's room
For sorrow in the arms of death,
For disappointment in the tomb :
What though the slumbers there be deep,

Though not by kind remembrance blest,

To slumber is to cease to weep,

To sleep forgotten is to rest;

Oh sound shall be

The rest for me,

When I am laid beneath the tree!

Henry Neele.

TO THE MEMORY OF A VERY PROMISING

CHILD.

Written after witnessing her last moments.

I cannot weep, yet I can feel

The pangs that rend a parent's breast;
But, ah! what sighs or tears can heal
Thy griefs, and wake the slumberer's rest?

What art thou, spirit undefined,

That passest with man's breath away;
That givest him feeling, sense, and mind,
And leavest him cold, unconscious clay?

A moment gone, I looked and lo!

Sensation throbbed through all her frame;
Those beamless eyes were raised in woe,
That bosom's motion went and came.

The next, a nameless change was wrought, Death nipt in twain life's brittle thread, And, in an instant, feeling, thought, Sensation, motion-all were fled !

Those lips shall never more repeat

The welcome lesson conned with care; Or breathe at even, in accents sweet, To heaven the well-remembered prayer!

Those little hands shall ne'er essay
To ply the mimic task again,
Well pleased, forgetting mirth and play,
A mother's promised gift to gain!

That heart is still-no more to move; That cheek is wan-no more to bloom, Or dimple in the smile of love,

That speaks a parent's welcome home.

And thou with years and sufferings bowed,
Say, dost thou least this loss deplore ?
Ah! though thy wailings are not loud,
I fear thy secret grief is more.