The noble oak, in distant ages seen,

With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green,
Though now its bare and forky branches show

How much it lacks the vital warmth below.
The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,

Nay, moves our pity without thought of pains:
Much more shall really wants and cares of age
Our gentler passions in their cause engage ;—
Drooping and burthen'd with the weight of years,
What venerable ruin man appears!

How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief—
He claims protection-he compels relief;-
And shall we send him from our view, to brave
The storms abroad, whom we at home might save,
And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave?
No!-we will shield him from the storm he fears,
And when he falls embalm him with our tears.

CRABBE.

OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom-cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

childhood;

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my
Each seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces-

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

CHARLES LAMB.

THE FOUNTAIN.

WE talk'd with open heart and tongue
Affectionate and true,

A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

Beside a mossy seat;

And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match

This water's pleasant tune

With some old Border-song, or Catch, That suits a summer's noon.

Or if the Church-clock and the chime

Sing here beneath the shade,

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!"

In silence Matthew lay and eyed The spring beneath the tree;

And thus the dear old man replied,

The grey-haired man of glee :

"Down to the vale this water steers, How merrily it goes!

"Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.

And here on this delightful day,

I cannot choose but think

How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirr'd,

For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind

Mourns less for what age takes away

Than what it leaves behind.

The Blackbird in the summer trees, The Lark upon the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.

With Nature never do they wage

A foolish strife: they see

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free:

But we are press'd by heavy laws;

And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore.

If there is one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

The household hearts that were his own,

It is the man of mirth."

WORDSWORTH.

AN AUTHOR'S CHAMBER.

WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ;
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug.
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of Goose was there in view,
And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face.
The morn was cold; he views with keen desire

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,

A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.