And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
But, O the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again,
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.-COWPER
With that low Cunning, which in fools supplies,
And amply too, the place of being wise,
Which Nature, kind indulgent parent, gave
To qualify the blockhead for a knave;
With that smooth Falsehood, whose appearance charms,
And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms,
Which to the lowest depths of guilt descends,
By vilest means pursues the vilest ends,
Wears Friendship's mask for purposes of spite,
Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night;
With that malignant Envy, which turns pale,
And sickens, even if a friend prevail,
Which merit and success pursues with hate,
And mocks the worth it cannot imitate;
With the cold Caution of a coward's spleen,
Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a screen,
Which keeps this maxim ever in her view—
What's basely done, should be done safely too;
With that dull, rooted, callous Impudence,
Which, dead to shame, and ev'ry nicer sense,
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading Vice's snares,
She blunder'd on some virtue unawares;
With all these blessings, which we seldom find
Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind,
A motley figure, of the Fribble Tribe,
Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe,
Came simp'ring on; to ascertain whose sex
Twelve sage, impanell'd matrons would perplex.
Nor male, nor female; neither and yet both,
Of neuter Gender, tho' of Irish growth;
A six-foot suckling, mincing in its gait;
Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate;
Fearful it seem'd, tho' of athletic make,
Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake
Its tender form, and savage motion spread,
O'er its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red.
Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase,
Of Genius and of Taste, of play'rs and plays;
Much too of writings, which itself had wrote,
Of special merit, tho' of little note;
For Fate, in a strange humour, had decreed
That what it wrote, none but itself should read;
Much too it chatter'd of Dramatic Laws,
Misjudging Critics, and misplaced applause;
Then with a self-complacent jutting air,
It smiled, it smirk'd, it wriggled to the chair;
And, with an awkward briskness not its own,
Looking around, and perking on the throne,
Triumphant seem'd, when that strange savage Dame,
Known but to few, or only known by name,
Plain Common Sense appear'd, by Nature there
Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair,
The Pageant saw, and, blasted with her frown,
To its first state of Nothing melted down.
Nor shall the Muse (for even there the pride Of this vain Nothing shall be mortified)Nor shall the Muse (should Fate ordain her rhymes, Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after times) With such a trifler's name her pages blot; Known be the Character, the Thing forgot;
Let it, to disappoint each future aim,
Live without sex, and die without a name !-CHURCHILL.
My Father's Face! Its lines were those
Of inward peace, deep sense, and feeling;
His eye encounter'd man's and rose
Refulgent as it gazed, revealing
Mental fire-never have I seen such grace
As that which settled on my Father's Face!
And yet it wore a sickly hue
The sunken cheek and quivering lip
Pale testimony bore most true
To that fell frost, whose touch does nip
The rose's growth-whose withering breath did chase
Heaven's own complexion from my Father's Face.
But then the features thin did still
Retain their native greatness, nay,
It seemed that Nature, in her skill,
Caused mind to grow by health's decay;
For ne'er did genius brighter emblems trace
Than gemm'd the furrows in my Father's Face.
Thus night's pale fulgence starts to light,
As morning's prime to evening glides;
Thus Nature's torrents, in their might,
Disclose the ore on mountain sides;
Even so the soul ethereal, bodiless,
Diffused her halo o'er my Father's Face.
That halo came, and spread, and pass'd-
The mortal shroud eclipsed its ray—
The funeral pall around was cast—
Never arose to me a day
So pregnant with forebodings of distress
As that which sepulchred my Father's Face!
Now years have roll'd away, boyhood
And youth did quickly pass my prime
Came prematurely on-my mood
Was still the lonely hill to climb,
And, sadly ruminating, try to trace,
In mem❜ry's sketch, my dying Father's Face.
Sometimes I fancied that I saw,
Reflected in my mother's look,
A distant outline-Nature's law
Transfers the image love first took-
But though it was a look of mildest grace,
It equall'd not the radiance of his Face.
The stranger's face I scann'd, to see
If it contain'd his lineaments,
But no face smiled like his on me-
None breathed such kindred sentiments,
Alas, that Face! Time's hand cannot erase
The deep remembrance of my Father's Face!
Then months of pining sickness came,
My thoughts were melancholy, nay,
My mind became unhinged, the same
As children show; and now decay
To every limb its impress gave-alas!
I almost now forgot my Father's Face!
At length, one eve when life seem'd spent,
Warm hearts approach'd, their cares were strange-
They sat and sigh'd, they came and went-
Their looks portentous seem'd a change
They whisper'd near- their motions I could trace,
They guess'd I soon would see my Father's Face.
The mirror near I snatch'd, to view
If grief had really lent its aid
To throw distrust on years so few,
And playfully, in smiles, I said,
"You call me pale! I know you fear my caseThis glass! It is! Behold my Father's Face!"
Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are call'd to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They march'd all in silence-they look'd to the ground.
In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar,
"Now here let us place the grey-stone of her cairn—
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
"I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween;
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen;
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-
'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn—
"I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief,
I dream'd that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
In dust, low, the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!-CAMpbell.
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