"Ambitious thou, the tulip race,
In all life's 'varied course beware; Nor let sweet pleasure's rosy grace,
With all its sharper thorns ensnare.
"Thou, prudent still, to virtue's lore,
Attend and mark her counsels sage;
She, like the flow'r, has charms in store,
To soothe the ev'ning of thine age."
He ceas'd-attend the moral strain,
The muse enlighten'd pours,
Nor let her pencil trace in vain
The judgment of the flow'rs.
"THE JOY OF GRIEF."—OSSIAN.
SWEET the hour of tribulation,
When the heart can freely sigh;
And the tear of resignation
Twinkles in the mournful eye.
Have you felt a kind emotion
Tremble through your troubl❜d breast;
Soft as evening o'er the ocean
When she charms the waves to rest?
Have you lost a friend or brother?
Heard a father's parting breath?
Gaz'd upon a lifeless mother,
Till she seem'd to wake from death?
Have you felt a spouse expiring,
In your arms before your view!
Watch'd the lovely soul retiring,
From the eyes that broke on you?
Did not grief then grow romantic,
Raving on remember'd bliss?
Did you not, with fervour frantic,
Kiss the lips that felt no kiss?
Horrour then your heart congealing,
Chill'd you with intense despair;
Can you recollect the feeling?
No! there was no feeling there.
From that gloomy trance of sorrow,
When you woke to pangs unknown;
How unwelcome was the morrow,
For it rose on you alone!
Sunk in self-consuming anguish,
Can the poor heart always ache?
No, the tortur'd nerve will languish,
Or the strings of life must break.
O'er the yielding brow of sadness,
One faint smile of comfort stole;
One soft pang of tender gladness
Exquisitely thrill'd your soul.
While the wounds of wo are healing,
While the heart is all resign'd,
"Tis the solemn feast of feeling,
"Tis the sabbath of the mind.
Pensive mem'ry then retraces
Scenes of bliss for ever fled; Lives in former times and places, Holds communion with the dead.
And when night's prophetic slumbers Rend the veil to mortal eyes,
From their tombs the sainted numbers Of our lost companions rise.
You have seen a friend, a brother,
Heard a dear dead father speak;
Prov'd the fondness of a mother,
Felt her tears upon your cheek.
Dreams of love your grief beguiling,
You have clasp'd a consort's charms.
And receiv'd your infant smiling,
From his mother's sacred arins.
Trembling, pale and agonizing,
While you mourn'd the vision gone,
Bright the morning-star arising,
Open'd heaven, from whence it shone.
Thither all your wishes bending,
Rose in extacy sublime;
Thither all your hopes ascending,
Triumph'd over death and time.
Thus afflicted, bruis'd and broken,
Have you known such sweet relief?
Yes, my friend! and by this token,
You have known "The Joy of Grief."
NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.
THE lady thus address'd her spouse―
What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means large enough; and was it,
Yet this dull room and that dark closet-
Those hangings with their worn-out graces,
Long beards, long noses and pale faces-
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen!
Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark:
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engag'd myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door,
Precisely when the clock strikes four.
You are so deaf, the lady cried, (And rais'd her voice and frown'd beside) You are so sadly deaf, my dear, What shall I do to make you hear?
Dismiss poor Harry! he replies;
Some people are more nice than wise-
For one slight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride whip and spur,
"Twas but a mile-your favourite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.
Well, I protest, 'tis past all bearing-
Child! I am rather hard of hearing-
Yes, truly-one must scream and bawl-
I tell you, you can't hear at all!
Then, when a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.
Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something, ev'ry day they live,
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
But if infirmities that fall
In common to the lot of all—
A blemish or a sense impair'd-
Are crimes so little to be spar'd,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar
And tumult, and intestine war.
The love that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserv❜d by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention,
But lives, when that exterior grace,
Which first inspir'd the flame decays;
"Tis gentle, delicate and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure.
But angry, coarse and harsh expression,
Shows love to be a mere profession;
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is.
COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
AND wherefore do the poor complain,
The rich man asked of me;
Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.
"Twas evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold,
And we were wrapt and coated well,
And yet were very cold.
We met an old bare-headed man,
His locks were few and white;
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night.
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