صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

THE THREE AGES.

It may be imagined that the dear child was no loser by her generosity; she was loaded with caresses by every one, which, too much excited to feel her bashfulness, she not only endured but returned. Her uncle, thus rebuked by an infant, was touched almost to tears. He folded her in his arms, kissed her, and blessed her; gave Stefano half a crown for the precious sixpence, and swore to keep it as a relic and a lesson as long as he lived.

MISS MITFORD.

THE THREE AGES.

CHILDHOOD.

"Tis sweet to look on a new blown flower;
To watch the tints of the summer sky;
To lurk in the depths of a sylvan bower,
Lulled by the lone stream's lullaby.

'Tis sweet to view, at the opening day,
The pearls that gem the green-clad earth;
And hear the burst of the song-birds' lay-
The morning hymn of their love and mirth.

'Tis sweet to stand, at the dusky hour, By the pebbly rim of a glassy lake, While myriad stars, in a silent shower, Drop calmly down as a silv'ry flake.

But where's the sight, on the earth or sky,
By the garden bower, or woodland wild,
Where aught so sweet as the heavenward eye,
And fervent look, of a praying child?

The cherub form seems not of this land,
No tenant of earthly mould or clay,
But a stranger-come from the seraph band
On Zion's hill, in the realms of day,

.A dream of light,-a vision of might,-
A starbeam cased in a mortal urn,-
A soul of bliss from spheres of delight,-
An incense breath from the lamps that burn.

Around the throne of the Unseen Power That ruleth beyond the depths of night,A sainted seer of the heavenly dower, That waits the good in the land of light;

Come here to tell to the earthly mind
Of the hopes that spring where fears begin,
And rend in twain the fetters that bind
Poor man a slave to the ways of sin.

Then smile not thou at its lowly prayer,
Though short its cry for mercy appear;
An angel band is hovering there,
And He that bled still deigneth to hear.

Round childhood's day shines many a ray,
Of beauteous gleam and of nameless dye;
But the hour the young heart strives to pray
Brings brightest joy to a parent's eye.

YOUTH.

O fairest season in the life of man!

Sweet noontide of his short and chequered day!
Who would not wish to live again that span
Of radiant hopes and feelings, ever gay,

Which round the heart, like sunbeams in the stream,
In many a glad and glittering halo ran!-
Such as of old young poets used to dream
Begirt the brow of her that led the van

Of merry maids, who danced on vine-clad hills
To the soft tinkling music of old Grecian rills.

That morn! the young mind breaks its golden cell, And finds its wings expand o'er trackless air; Oh what a gush of towering fancies swell In billowy madness, and a power that ne'er Would seem to bend beneath misfortune's gale! No new-fledged bird that roams the summer dell Is half so fond of earth's rich flowery vale--So vainly dreams in ceaseless joy to dwell Amid its sunny haunts and smiling flowers, Bathed in the blessed dew of heaven's balmy showers.

The song of birds-the lulling hum of bees-
The bleat of lambs-the evening waterfall-
The shepherd's pipe-the dulcet summer breeze-
The milkmaid's merry lay-commingled, all
In soft harmonious cadence charm the ear,
And make earth seem but one vast music-hall-
One choir of joy-this life a long career
Of sweets whereon the heart should never pall:
O happy time, O days of careless glee-

Of golden morning dreams-from pain and sorrow free!

But ah! what snares athwart its pathway lie,
What fraud is used to lure it from the way
Its fond heart seeks beyond yon spangled sky,
And chain it under sin's corrosive sway!
O youth, beware, for myriad unseen foes
By night, by day, their ruthless trick'ries try
Thy soul to rifle of its dower on high,

And rob thy young heart of its soft repose-
Its bed of peace-its hopes of high renown-
Then leave thee to the world's sneer and desolating
frown.

But happy he! who, like that maiden fair,
Whom painter's art has reared before our eyes,
With willing heart receives a mother's care
To lead him wisdom's way, and gain that prize
So dearly won-so fraught with love and grace
For all to seek, which all may win and share:
O who would not this cold world's wiles efface,
And, with a will deep-fixed, for ever dare
To baffle all the snares that sin has wove,

And lose earth's fleeting joy for deathless bliss above?

[graphic][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

OLD AGE.

A lonely hamlet, with its house of prayer,
To which a matron's guided on her way,
By one that shows a daughter's tender care,

And, by their side, a child that seems to pray,
Is all the scene-but, while we fondly gaze,
What thoughts of Life and Death these objects raise.

We leave weak childhood's morn of smiles and tears,
And youth's full tide of gaiety and glee,
To commune with the hoary man of years,

Who longs from out this vale of tears to be,
And find that rest he here has sought in vain,
Beyond the reach of vanity and pain.

Pilgrim of life! what though thy locks be gray,
Thine eye be dim, thy cheek be wan and pale-
Though gone the strength of youth's exulting day,
And e'en the mind itself begin to fail;
Ne'er let the tear of grief bedim thine eye,
Thy desert's crossed-thy Jordan's rolling nigh!

Though friends have dropped like brown leaves from the tree,

And hopes be dead that once bloomed fresh and fair; Though all alone on earth thou seem'st to be, No one so poor as with thy grief to share; Lift up thine eyes in faith to Him that bledThe cloud is past-thy solitude has fled.

A few more steps-thy weary feet at last,

With joy, shall tread that gorgeous sunny shore, Where, nestled safe, the withering simoom blast

Of pangs and cares shall beat on thee no moreNo more along our earth a wanderer driven, Thy panting breast has found a home in heaven.

JAMES MACDONALD.

THE LUTIST AND THE

NIGHTINGALE.

[John Ford, born in Devonshire, 1586; died about 1640; a poet and dramatist. When seventeen years old he entered the Middle Temple, London, as a barrister; and three years after, published a poem entitled "Fame's Memorial," an elegy in honour of the deceased Earl of Devonshire. It is as a dramatist that he is remembered. His plays were published between the years 1629 and 1639, but they had been previously produced on the stage. The tragedy of the "Brother and Sister" contains many fine passages of poetry; but the subject renders it unsuitable for popular reading. In conjunction with Dekker, he dramatized the story of the "Witch of Edmonton." The following extract is from the play of the "Lover's Melancholly," played at the Blackfriars and Globe Theatres, Nov. 24, 1628, and VOL. L

of which Gifford says-"It has much of the grace and sweetness which distinguish the genius of Ford." He wrote eleven plays and part of five others. Seven of them were destroyed or lost ]

Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me
Desire of visiting Paradise.

To Thessaly I came, and living private,
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encountered me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art and nature ever were at strife in.
A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather
Indeed entranced my soul: as I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw

[ocr errors]

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute
With strains of strange variety and harmony
Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds,
That as they flock'd about him, all stood silent,
Wond'ring at what they heard. I wondered too.
A nightingale,

Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes

The challenge; and for every several strain

The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him down.
He could not run divisions with more art

Upon his quaking instrument than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to.

Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird,

Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice.
To end the controversy, in a rapture

Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,

So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method

Meeting in one full centre of delight.

The bird (ordain'd to be

Music's first martyr) strove to imitate

These several sounds; which when her warbling throat
Failed in, for grief down dropt she on his lute,
And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness
To see the conqueror upon her hearse
To weep a funeral elegy of tears.
He look'd upon the trophies of his art,
Then sigh'd, then wip'd his eyes; then sigh'd and cry'd,
"Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge

This cruelty upon the author of it.
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,
As he was dashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.

4

FRIENDS.

The two rarest things to be met with are goodsense and good-nature. For one man who judges right, there are twenty who can say good things; as there are numbers who will serve you or do friendly actions, for one who really wishes you well. It has been said, and often repeated, that "mere good-nature is a fool:" but I think that the dearth of sound sense, for the most part, proceeds from the want of a real unaffected interest in things, except as they react upon ourselves: or from a neglect of the maxim of that good old philanthropist who said, "Nihil humani a me alienum puto." The narrowness of the heart warps the understanding, and makes us weigh objects in the scales of our self-love, instead of those of truth and justice. We consider not the merits of the case, or what is due to others, but the manner in which our own credit or consequence will be affected; and adapt our opinions and conduct to the last of these rather than to the first. The judgment is seldom wrong where the feelings are right; and they generally are so, provided they are warm and sincere. He who intends others well, is likely to advise them for the best: he who has any cause at heart, seldom ruins it by his imprudence. Those who play the public or their friends slippery tricks, have in secret no objection to betray them.

One finds out the folly and malice of mankind by the impertinence of friends-by their professions of service and tenders of advice-by their fears for your reputation and anticipations of what the world may say of you; by which means they suggest objections to your enemies, and at the same time absolve themselves from the task of justifying your errors, by having warned you of the consequences-by the care with which they tell you ill-news, and conceal from you any flattering circumstance-by their dread of your engaging in any creditable at tempt, and mortification if you succeed-by the difficulties and hindrances they throw in your way-by their satisfaction when you happen to make a slip or get into a scrape, and their determination to tie your hands behind you, lest you should get out of it-by their panic-terrors at your entering into a vindication of yourself, lest in the course of it you should call upon them for a certificate to your character-by their lukewarmness in defending, by their readiness in betraying you-by the high standard by which they try you, and to which you can hardly ever come up by their forwardness to partake your triumphs, by their

backwardness to share your disgrace-by their acknowledgment of your errors out of candour, and suppression of your good qualities out of envy-by their not contradicting, or by their joining in the cry against you, lest they too should become objects of the same abuse-by their playing the game into your adversaries' hands, by always letting their imaginations take part with their cowardice, their vanity, and selfishness against you; and thus realizing or hastening all the ill consequences they affect to deplore, by spreading abroad that very spirit of distrust, obloquy, and hatred, which they predict will be excited against you!

He

I like real good-nature and good-will better than I do any offers of patronage, or plausible rules for my conduct in life. I may suspect the soundness of the last, and I may not be quite sure of the motives of the first. People complain of ingratitude for benefits, and of the neglect of wholesome advice. In the first place, we pay little attention to advice, because we are seldom thought of in it. The person who gives it either contents himself to lay down (ex cathedra) certain vague, general maxims, and "wise saws," which we knew before; or, instead of considering what we ought to do, recommends what he himself would do. merely substitutes his own will, caprice, and prejudices for ours, and expects us to be guided by them. Instead of changing places with us (to see what is best to be done in the given circumstances), he insists on our looking at the question from his point of view, and acting in such a manner as to please him. This is not at all reasonable; for one man's meat, according to the old adage, is another man's poison. And it is not strange, that starting from such opposite premises, we should seldom jump in a conclusion, and that the art of giving and taking advice is little better than a game at cross-purposes. I have observed that those who are the most inclined to assist others are the least forward or peremptory with their advice; for having our interest really at heart, they consider what can, rather than what cannot be done, and aid our views and endeavour to avert ill consequences by moderating our impatience and allaying irritations, instead of thwarting our main design, which only tends to make us more extravagant and violent than ever. In the second place, benefits are often conferred out of ostentation or pride, rather than from true regard; and the person obliged is too apt to perceive this. People who are fond of appearing in the light of patrons will perhaps go through fire and water to serve you, who yet would be sorry to find you no longer

« السابقةمتابعة »