Now the charms of gold,
Spells of pride and fashion,
Bid them say good morrow
To the best-loved maid.

Through the forests wild,
O'er the mountains lonely,
They were never weary
Honour to pursue:

If the damsel smiled
Once in seven years only,

All their wanderings dreary
Ample guerdon knew.

Now one day's caprice

Weighs down years of smiling,
Youthful hearts are rovers,
Love is bought and sold:
Fortune's gifts may cease,
Love is less beguiling;
Wiser were the lovers,
In the days of old.

I

CLXII.

LOVE AND AGE.

PLAYED with you 'mid cowslips blowing,

When I was six and you were four ;

When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.

Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,

We wandered hand in hand together ;

But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden,

And still our early love was strong;

Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;

And I did love you very dearly,

How dearly words want power to show ;

I thought your heart was touched as nearly ;-
But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glittering sphere.

I saw you then, first vows forsaking,

On rank and wealth your hand bestow ;

Oh! then I thought my heart was breaking;— But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another :
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row.
My joy in them was past expression,-
But that was thirty years ago.

;

You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.

No merrier eyes have ever glistened

Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,

Than when my youngest child was christened,—

But that was twenty years ago.

Time passed. My eldest girl was married,

And I am now a grandsire gray;

One pet of four years old I've carried

Among the wild-flowered meads to play.

In our old fields of childish pleasure,

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,-
And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassioned blindness
Has passed away in colder light,

I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever-rolling silent hours

Will bring a time we shall not know,

When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

CLXIII.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, 1788-1824

S'

HE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.