THE MINSTREL'S HOPE. Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime, Borne on the swift though silent wings of time, And be it so. Let those deplore their doom "Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive? With disappointment, penury, and pain?" No Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive, : And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 187 Bright through the eternal year of Love's triumphant reign. BEATTIE. SPRING. THE spring is here the delicate-footed May, Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours— We pass out from the city's feverish hum, Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, And the light whisper as their edges meet— Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. WILLIS. THE BATTLE. ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide; SHAKSPEARE. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. O MAN! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force give nature's law, Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, Then age and want, O ill-match'd pair! A few seem favourites of fate, Yet, think not all the rich and great But, oh! what crowds in every land Are wretched and forlorn. Through weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still we make ourselves Makes countless thousands mourn. Yet let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppresséd, honest man Had never sure been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! BURNS. 191 |