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YOUTH AND AGE.

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SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. FROM THE BIJOU," 1828.

VERSE, a breeze, mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clings feeding like a bee,
Both were mine! Life went a-Maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

When I was young!

When I was young ?-Ah, woful when !
Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then!
This house of clay not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,

How lightly then it flash'd along:

Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,

On winding lakes and rivers wide,

That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wide or tide!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather,
When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely: Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O the joys that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,

Ere I was old!

Ere I was old?-Ah, woful ere,
Which tells me Youth's no longer here!
O Youth for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known that thou and I were one;
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd,
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size;
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought; so think I will
That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking leave;
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismiss'd,
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

After the publication of "Youth and Age" in The Bijou, it was much altered and lengthened by the author. These improvements I have adopted from Chambers's Cyclopedia of English Literature.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS, BORN AT PORTLAND, IN MAINE, JANUARY 20, 1807.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old;

That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death,

And my years are well-nigh told;

It is very true—it is very true

I'm old, and I "bide my time;"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.

I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go,

For the world, at best, is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

STANZAS.

FROM "POEMS," BY WILLIAM STANLEY ROSCOE: 1834.

AN angel in the realins of day
Forgot her heavenly birth,
Impell'd by Pity's gentle voice
To walk the suffering earth.

To pour a thousand streams of bliss,-
To still the weeping storm,-
To fill the world with light and love,--
She came in Harriet's form!

USE OF PHRENOLOGY.

ANONYMOUS.

FROM THE "LITERARY GAZETTE."

AWAY with all doubt and misgiving,
Now lovers must woo by the book-
There's an end to all trick and deceiving,
No men can be caught by a look.
Bright eyes or a love-breeding dimple
No longer their witchery fling;
That lover indeed must be simple
Who yields to so a silly a thing.

No more need we fly the bright glances,
Whence Cupid shot arrows of yore;

To skulls let us limit our fancies,

And love by the bumps we explore!
Oh, now we can tell in a minute

What fate will be ours when we wed;
The heart has no passion within it
That is not engraved on the head.

The first time I studied the science
With Jane, and I cannot tell how,
'Twas not till the eve of alliance

I caught the first glimpse of her brow.

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