Then shun the spot, my youthful friends; work on while

1

yet you may;

Let not old age overtake you as you slothfully delay,

Lest you should gaze around you, and discover, with a sigh,

You have reached the house of "Never" by the street of By-and-bye!

THE PASSIONS.

BY COLLINS.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting,
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-for Madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.

With woeful measures, wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds! his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits-by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She called on Echo still through all her song ;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung, but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose ;

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And, ever and anon, he beat

The double drum with furious heat:

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien;

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy slumbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ;
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And, from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul :
And, clashing soft, from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound.

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ;
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh! how altered was its sprightly tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green ;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best,
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

A COLLOQUY WITH MYSELF.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

As I walked by myself, I talked to myself,
And myself replied to me;

And the questions myself then put to myself,
With their answers, I give to thee.

Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself Their responses the same should be,

Oh! look well to thyself, and beware of thyself, Or so much the worse for thee.

What are Riches? Hoarded treasures
May, indeed, thy coffers fill;

Yet, like earth's most fleeting pleasures,
Leave thee poor and heartless still.

What are Pleasures?

When afforded

But by gauds which pass away,
Read their fate in lines recorded
On the sea-sands yesterday.

What is Fashion? Ask of Folly,
She her worth can best express.

What is moping Melancholy?
Go and learn of Idleness.

What is Truth? Too stern a preacher
For the prosperous and the gay!
But a safe and wholesome teacher
In Adversity's dark day.

What is Friendship? If well founded,
Like some beacon's heavenward glow;
If on false pretensions grounded,

Like the treacherous sand below.

What is Love? If earthly only,
Like a meteor of the night;
Shining but to leave more lonely

Hearts that hailed its transient light:

But when calm, refined, and tender,
Purified from passion's stain,
Like the moon, in gentle splendour,
Ruling o'er the peaceful main.

What are Hopes, but gleams of brightness,
Glancing darkest clouds between?
Or foam-crested waves, whose whiteness
Gladdens ocean's darksome green.

What are Fears? Grim phantoms, throwing
Shadows o'er the pilgrim's way,

Every moment darker growing,

If we yield unto their sway.

What is Mirth? A flash of lightning,
Followed but by deeper gloom.

Patience? More than sunshine brightening

Sorrow's path, and labour's doom.

What is Time? A river flowing
To Eternity's vast sea,
Forward, whither all are rowing,
On its bosom bearing thee.