Eternal to the world, though not to me),
Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be,
The deathless wreath, and undecay'd festoon,
When I am hearsed within,--
Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon,
That now she watches through a vapor thin.

VII.

So let it be:--Before I lived to sigh,
Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,
Beautiful Orb! and so, whene'er I lie
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.
Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,
And blessed thy fair face, O Mother mild!
Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run,
Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond,
And blend their plighted shadows into one:--
Still smile at even on the bedded child,
And close his eyelids with thy silver wand!

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky
The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Hues of all flow'rs, that in their ashes lie,
Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed,--
Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red,--
Like exhalations from the leafy mould,
Look here how honor glorifies the dead,
And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold!--
Such is the memory of poets old,
Who on Parnassus' hill have bloom'd elate;
Now they are laid under their marbles cold,
And turned to clay, whereof they were create;
But god Apollo hath them all enroll'd,
And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate!

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

I.

Oh, when I was a tiny boy,
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!--
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

II.

A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;--
But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!

III.

My marbles--once my bag was stored,--
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,
With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipt his string,
Forgotten all his capering,
And harness'd to the law!

IV.

My kite--how fast and far it flew!
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes,
The tasks I wrote--my present dreams
Will never soar so high!

V.

My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;--
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a hoop,
And seld