SUBJECT OF THE PLATE.
FROM LORD BYRON'S POEMS, XX.
WHEN late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when th' unconscious infant smiled,
I kissed it for its mother's sake.
I kissed it, and repressed my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay,
My heart would soon again be thine.
FROM WALTER SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE.
THEN through the dell his horn resounds,
From vain pursuit to call the hounds.
Back limped, with slow and crippled pace,
The sulky leaders of the chace;
Close to their master's side they pressed,
With drooping tail and humbled crest;
But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolonged the swelling bugle note.
The eighth Daughter of J. Lg, Esq. on the completion of "her sixth year.
BY A. A. WATTS, ESQ.*
FULL many a gloomy month hath past,
On flagging wing, regardless by,-
Unmarked by aught, save grief, since last
I gazed upon thy bright blue eye,
And bade my lyre pour forth for thee
Its strains of wildest minstrelsy!
For all my joys are withered now,-
The hopes I most relied on, thwarted,-
And sorrow hath o'erspread my brow
With many a shade since last we parted:
Yet, 'mid that murkiness of lot,
Young Peri! thou art unforgot!
There are who love to trace the smile
That dimples upon Childhood's cheek,
And hear from lips devoid of guile,
The dictates of the bosom break ;-
Ah! who of such, could look on thee,
Without a wish to rival me!
None: his must be a stubborn heart,
And strange to every softer feeling,
Who from thy glance could bear to part.
Cold, and unmoved-without revealing
Some portion of the fond regret
Which dimm'd my eye when last we met!
Sweet bud of beauty!-mid the thrill---
The anguished thrill of hope delayed-
Peril-and pain-and every ill
That can the breast of man invade-
No tender thought of thine and thee
Hath faded from my memory!
*These elegant verses have been extensively circulated in manuscript in town, and have been attributed to Lord Byron. From information, however, on which we can rely, we consider ourselves as being fully authorised to ascribe them to the gentleman whose name we have prefixed to them.-ED.
But I have dwelt on each dear form
'Till woe awhile gave place to gladness;-
And that remembrance seem'd to charm,
Almost to peace, my bosom's sadness:-
And now again I breathe a lay
To hail thee on thy natal day.
Oh! might the fondest
For blessings on thy future years—
Or innocence, like thine, avail
To save thee from affliction's tears,
Each moment of thy life should bring
Some new delight upon its wing;
And the wild sparkle of thine eye,-
Thy guilelessness of soul revealing,-
Beam ever thus as beauteously,
Undimm'd-save by those gems of feeling-
Those soft luxurious drops which flow
In pity for another's woe!
But vain the thought!-It may not be-
Could prayers avert misfortune's blight,
Or hearts, from sinful passions free,
Here hope for unalloyed delight,
Then those who guard thine opening bloom
Had never known an hour of gloom.
No;-if the chastening stroke of fate
On guilty heads alone descended,
Sure they would ne'er have felt its weight,
In whose pure bosoms, sweetly blended,
Life's dearest, social virtues move,
In one bright, linkless chain of love!
Then since upon this earth, joy's beams
Are fading-frail, and few in number,
And melt-like the light woven dreams
That steal upon the mourner's slumber,—
Sweet one! I'll wish thee strength to bear
The ills that heaven may bid thee share;
And when thine infancy hath fled,
And time with woman's zone hath bound thee,
If in the path thou'rt doom'd to tread
The thorns of sorrow lurk, and wound thee, Be thine that exquisite relief
Which blossoms 'mid the springs of grief!
And like the many-tinted bow
Which smiles the showery clouds away,
May hope-grief's Iris here below---
Attend, and soothe thee on thy way,
"Till full of years---thy cares at rest---
Thou seek'st the mansions of the blest!---
Young sister of a mortal nine,
Farewell!-perchance a long farewell!
Tho' woes unnumbered yet be mine-
Woes, hope may vainly strive to quell—
I'll half unteach my soul to pine
So there be bliss for thee and thine!
October, 1817.
AT eve I'll haste to deck the tomb
Where lies whom most I lov'd on earth;
The sweetest flowerets there shall bloom,
Fair emblems of his truth and worth.
And when the summer's sun shall glow,
And faded all my spring flowers lie,
The rose and woodbine sweet shall blow,
And shade the spot from every eye.
And there sequester'd I may weep, ̧
And fan each blossom with my sighs,
Till I am laid there too to sleep,
And my soul greet him in the skies.
RETURN, ye dear, delusive hours,
When seem'd my path all strew'd with flowers,
When free from care, my heart was gay,
And hail'd with hope each coming day
Alas! my happy hours are o'er,
The flowerets fade-to bloom no more!
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