That name which reach'd at once from Ister's shores
To where th' Atlantic's straighten'd ocean roars,
With sun-burnt Æthiopians own'd and fear'd,
Had pass'd unheeded-lost-and unrever'd:
But that blind Homer, or some god divine,
For thee had dar'd celestial realms resign,
In mortal shape, with more than mortal song,
To paint thee fighting in the battle's throng;
To come, the heav'n-sent herald of thy praise,
And crown thy brow with never-fading bays.

"The time will come, when proud of Grecian fame, The gods to my renown shall grant the same. Arise, great Homer, on majestic wing Thy deeds of arms to later ages sing! Come with thy verse, my ev'ry triumph see, A new Achilles springs to life in me!"

With frantic zeal, while yet his bosom burn'd,
His shield he smote-the stroke the brass return'd;
The clash of arms the army pass'd around,
And woody Ida bellow'd back the sound-

The painted Mede, the Persian line of war,
In speechless terror heard the noise from far:
And thou Granicus, from his iv'ry throne
Darius leap'd, nor thought the day his own;
Yet pray'd to Heav'n with his distemper'd mind-
His pray'rs, unheeded, pass'd in empty wind.

MYTTON.

For O there are so many things
Recall the past to me,

The breeze upon the sunny hill,
The billow on the sea;
The rosy tint that decks the sky
Before the sun is set,

Aye, ev'ry leaf I look upon
Forbids me to forget.

BAYLY.

It was eve as I thoughtful return'd

From the beach where I lonely had stray'd; The soft sky was bespangled with stars, And the moon-beams their beauties display'd.

As I linger'd, admiring the scene,

On a rock's rugged side I reclin'd, When the light-sounding dash of the waves Brought these thoughts to my sorrowful mind.

I lament not the day is now past,

Pleasant summer, I sigh not for you, For your season will duly return

With mornings of bright pearly dew.

I regret not that winter is come,

Though it robs of their honors the trees; Nature quickly will clothe them again,

And restore us the spring's wanton breeze.

⚫ I am sad, for no change is e'er wrought
On the care which depresses my heart,
And the gloom, which recedes from all else,
Finds no period from me to depart.

The pale moon, sweetest orb, which now shines,
And rides o'er the scarce-rippled main,
Will in brightness depart from her course,
And return to her splendor again.

Oh! 'twas here in sweet moments of bliss,
The bright visions of love I pursu'd;
I scarce sipp'd of their pleasures, and found
That, when lost, they are never renew'd.

Yes! I lov'd, and again was belov❜d,
Fickle fortune was bent to deceive;
And the sorrow which preys on my heart,
Mocks all that attempts to relieve.

Yet that form I can never forget,
And that worth is still sacredly dear

Oft to mem'ry one tribute I pay,
Tho' 'tis sad, it is faithful-a tear!

M-ford, 1828.

;

A. S.

SENILE EST DE SE LOQUI.

It is the universal habit, and peculiar attribute, of those who have numbered a long sum of years unforgotten, to delight in the recollection of time gone bythe truant tricks of the careless school-boy-the hot and thoughtless darings of youth-the wise or heroic deeds of ripened manhood are called up like dreams of the night, to gladden, with their imaginary influence, grey and imbecile old age.

The aged soldier lays bare his honorable scars, and tells of the glory they bought him-relates his victories, intermingles with his own exploits those of the general, and expatiates, with exultation, on the deeds of a friend, or a companion,-"He forgets that he is old."

Similar instances would be trite, uninteresting, and wearisome; wherever we look, examples innumerable are before us. Mark, with attention, the worn-out sportsman, or the deep-read scholar! Is it not still so?

Can we, though we are young, in any way wonder at this most natural propensity? Must we not readily account for so exhilirating a pleasure? True! we cannot participate in the delights arising from it; but we must excuse it in the aged.

The old man marshals the joys and sorrows of past times before "the eye of his fancy." The one is lessened, the other is increased. At happiness gone by, he looks as through the medium of a magnifying glass,-its pleasures are heightened, its joys are multiplied, and he smiles as if he were young; at its sorrows, he looks through the glass inverted-they are diminished, his woes are lightened; past misery seems as a casual vexation, and he passes it over as unworthy a second consideration.

The traveller goes forth on his journey; a wide and various tract of land is before him; at one time he passes through gardens smiling with roses, beaming with beauty, with the herbage and vegetation of a Paradise, and the sweetness of an Eden; on the morrow he winds his lonely way through unknown deserts, and solitary wildernesses; now he passes over lawns and downs of a grass-like velvet; and now he struggles against stones and rocks, mountains, and difficulties. But, at length, the goal of his pilgrimage is attained, his journey is done. Then, as he sits down to rest, how does it delight him to look on the variegated country he has travelled over; how sweet, to comprehend, at one glance, that which has occupied him so many weary hours of toil and trouble! How recompensing to scan, from a distance, the scenes of perplexity which he has overcome, and to laugh at the difficulties that he has conquered. But his eye, with renewed delight, journeys over the beautiful spots, where his path was so fraught with pleasure— their loveliness looks tenfold in the distance.

So is it with old age. Be it happiness—be it sorrow

-be it comfort-be it disappointment-the fulfilment of his desires the downfall of his hopes-the joy of prosperity-the gloom of adversity-are all recalled to mind with a smiling, exhilirating influence, or with a mild and resigned melancholy, which tempers and sweetens the glad recollections of pleasure, and harmonizes the whole with a benign and cheerful serenity.

A.

TO MARY.

Nov. 10.

Yes, once again has time's unceasing flight
Brought round the hour, in which we all unite
In wish of joy for bliss already fled,

And pray'r for future blessings on thy head.
This is thy birth-day; fear not then to take
The lay that friendship dictates for thy sake;
And though my muse may scarcely find a rhyme,
At this cold, cheerless, most forbidding time,
For common theme,-yet Mary's natal day
Impels my thought, and prompts the ready lay:
And, oh! believe me, were the period spring,
And I just soaring on its softest wing,

I could not deem those hours than these more dear-
I could not speak in language more sincere.

On none, whom duty, love, or friendship's pow'r
Have render'd dear to thee, may fortune low'r :
But may they meet in life with sure success,
To crown their prospects, and thy happiness.
And ne'er may'st thou, amid the scenes of life,
Know friendship cool, or love repaid by strife.
Ne'er may thy hopes be cross'd, thy wish deferr'd,
But ev'ry pray❜r thou breath'st of heav'n be heard;
(For well I know that thou wilt nothing crave
That strictest virtue may not justly have.)
And, far as it with mortal lot can be,

Oh! may thy life be all felicity !