And man is never half so blest As when the busy day is spent, God grant thee but a due reward, A guerdon portion fair and just; And then ne'er think thy station hard, ELIZA COOK, 1818— THE RIVER. INFANT of the weeping hills, Nursling of the springs and rills, Wimpling, dimpling, staying never,- Lipping, slipping, ever flowing, Sleep into a glassy pool. Breaking, gushing, Downward rushing, Narrowing green against the bank, Where the alders grow in rank,— Thence recoiling, Outward boiling, Fret, in rough shingly shallows wide, Thus from darkness weeping out, Flows our infant Life away, Murmuring now the checks about, Singing now in onward play; Deepening, whirling, Darkly swirling Downward suck'd in eddying cover, Boiling with tumultuous loves; Oh to be a boy once more, Curly-headed, sitting singing 'Midst a thousand flowrets springing, In the sunny days of yore, In the sunny world remote, With feelings opening in their dew, And all the budding growths of thought! Oh, to be a boy, yet be From all my early follies free! But were I skill'd in prudent lore, Short our threescore years and ten, Yet, oh, from age to age, that we I know you all; thee, clover bloom, I The rise and fall of realms and kings, To know of earth's diviner state : How speeds the Church, with horns of light, Joy light the waving wings of Time. THOMAS AIRD, 1802 LIFE'S MUTATIONS. As waves the grass upon the fields to-day, That soon the wasting scythe shall sweep away ; As smiles the floweret in the morning dew, That eve's chill blast in blighted death may strew, Thus in brief glory spring the sons of clay, Thus bloom a while, then wither and decay. I saw an infant in its robe of white, The admiring mother's ever dear delight; It clapp'd its hands when tones of mirth went by, And nature's gladness glisten'd in its eye. Again I came an empty crib was there, A narrow coffin, and a funeral prayer. I saw a boy in healthful vigour bold, On one low stone that crowns yon swelling mound. I saw a gentle maid with beauty bless'd, Oh, boasted joys of earth! how swift ye fly, Dust tends to dust, with ashes ashes blend; They soon must need! But life's returning cares Sweep off the precious fruit that sorrow bears; The mourner drops his sable, and aspires To light anew ambition's smother'd fires, |