Beloved by every gentle Muse What present bliss!-what golden views! Though lodged within no vigorous frame, Not vain is sadly-uttered praise; The words of truth's memorial vow, Are sweet as morning fragrance shed Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resign their prey— And that which marks thy bed. And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, Lost Youth! a solitary Mother; This tribute from a casual Friend The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afflicted Moth. r felt was derived from the tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her Daughter, who visited Europe some years afterwards. Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg. ΟΠ SONNET. H what a wreck! how changed in mien and speech! Yet-though dread Powers, that work in mystery, spin Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch O'er the chilled heart-reflect; far, far within She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, To Her from heights that Reason may not win. THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 'IS not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, 'TIS The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,-'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain That his life hath received, to the last will remain. A Farmer he was; and his house far and near Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection—as generous as he. Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,- For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm. To the neighbors he went,-all were free with their money; For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, That they dreamt not of dearth;-He continued his rounds, Knocked here and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds. He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf, You lift up your eyes!—but I guess that you frame To London-a sad emigration I ween— With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,— Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; But nature is gracious, necessity kind, And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind, He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; Twice as fast as before does his blood run about; You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, This gives him the fancy of one that is young, What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand. Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers, Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 'Mid coaches and chariots, a wagon of straw, Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw ; With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream. |