When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links
That time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last.

Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said, were he ordain'd to run

His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done.»—
Ah! 't is not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly—
Of counsel mock'd-of talents, made

Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines-
Of nursing many a wrong desire-
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire

That cross'd my path-way for his star! All this it tells, and could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-
All-but that freedom of the mind

Which hath been more than wealth to me:
Those friendships in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly.
And that dear home, that saving ark

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!

FANCY.

THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found
That, fill'd as 't is with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun-
But 't is the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on angels' wings!

To let him pine so were a sin

One to whom all the world 's a debtor

So Doctor Hymen was call'd in,

And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Though still some ugly fever latent;—
Dose as before-a gentle opiate,
For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call,

So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS. SWEET Sirmio! thou, the very eye

Of all peninsulas and isles

That in our lakes of silver lie,

Or sleep, enwreathed by Neptune's smiles,

How gladly back to thee I fly! Still doubting, asking can it be That I have left Bithynia's sky, And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lighten'd mind
Lays down its load of care at last?—

When, tired with toil on land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep

On the long-wish'd-for bed once more?

This, this it is that pays alone

The ills of all life's former track : Shine out, my beautiful, my own

Sweet Sirmio-greet thy master back.

And thou, fair lake, whose water quaffs The light of heaven, like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice-let all that laughs Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TO MY MOTHER. Written in a Pocket-Book, 1823. THEY tell us of an Indian tree Which, howsoc'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom, wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth From which the life, that fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth.

'T is thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be),
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

FROM THE FRENCH.

Of all the men one meets about,
There's none like Jack-he 's every where:
At church-park-auction-dinner-rout-
Go when and where you will, he's there.
Try the West End, he's at your back-

Meets you, like Eurus, in the East-
You 're call'd upon for « How do, Jack?»
One hundred times a-day at least.
A friend of his one evening said,

As home he took his pensive way,

« Upon my soul, I fear Jack 's deadI've seen him but three times to-day!»

ROMANCE.

I HAVE a story of two lovers, fill'd

With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness, And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd

Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness; But where to chuse the locale of my vision

In this wide vulgar world—what real spot
Can be found out, sufficiently elysian

For two such perfect lovers, I know not.
Oh, for some fair Formosa, such as he,
The young Jew,' fabled of, in the Indian Sea,
By nothing but its name of Beauty known,
And which Queen Fancy might make all her own,
Her fairy kingdom-take its people, lands,
And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make, at least, one earthly corner fit
For Love to live in-pure and exquisite!

If France was beat at Waterloo

As all, but Frenchmen, think she wasTo Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news-no envoy's bag

E'er pass'd so many secrets through itScarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names one's ear to buzz in-
From Russia chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 't was he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King, He sent such hints through Viscount This, To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,

The drama, books, MS. and printedKean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts,

And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there, infused some soul in 't— Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,

Had-odd enough—a dangerous hole in 't.

'T was thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going,

In that Ned-trust him-had his finger.

COUNTRY-DANCE AND QUADRILLE.
ONE night, the nymph call'd Country-Dance—
Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,

A mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille→
Having been chased from London down
To that last, humblest haunt of all
She used to grace-a country-town-
Went smiling to the new year's ball.

Here, here, at least, she cried, « though driven
From London's gay and shining tracks-
Though, like a Peri cast from heaven,
I've lost, for ever lost Almack's-