Yet though my person fearless may be seen, For, as some vessel, tossed by wind and tide, This who can view, and not be forced to love! Like all mankind, with vanity I'm blessed, These careless lines if any virgin hears, If I my tender overture repeat, O! may my vows her kind reception meet; EPITAPH, ON A FAVORITE LAP-DOG. I never barked when out of season; I never bit without a reason; I ne'er insulted weaker brother; Nor wronged by force nor fraud another. THE YOUNG. BY FRANCES BROWN. The world may believe in the wisdom time teaches, But true to the wisdom our years have forsaken, And bright in their wrecks are the schemes of the young As hearth-light illumes the dark eve of December, Affliction may beam through the winter of years But will not the miser in silence remember Some brow that still bound with his roses appears! Alas! for the dust and the change may pass over The step and the tone to our memory that clung— But time hath no shadow that bright track to cover, And life hath no love like the love of the young. Remains there a mine unexplored but believed in, Thou dreamer of age, there were themes of proud story, The tones it sent forth when the lyre was new strungThere are echoes still there for the brave and the tender, But none such as gush from the hearts of the young. Or say, have they pass'd from the paths of thy journey, The miss'd among thousands, the mourn'd-for apart― From the toil, from the tumult of life dost thou turn thee, At times to revisit the tombs of the heart! Green, green, in the leaf-fall of years will they greet thee, If fill'd by the flowers in thy home-shade that sprung-And blessed are the lessons of love that will meet thee From mem'ries laid up in the graves of the young Brig t spring of the spirit, so soon passing from it, Thou know'st no return, and we ask thee not backFor who that hath reach'd e'en the snows of the summit, Would wish to retrace all the thorns of his track? And thorns, it may be, 'mid the verdure have found us— Deep, deep have they pierced, though the pang be unsung But oh, for the dew of that day-spring around us Once more, as it falls on the paths of the young! THE GOD OF THE WORLD BY FRANCES BROWN. The gray of the desert's dawn Had tinged that mighty mound Upon that lonely height, To mark the morning climb For his journey left no track On the long untrodden sand- To fear his withering hand; And the genius greeted him who made · They spoke of their ancient swav, O'er the desert-dweller's lip and brow, As he said—“What gods do they worship now i " The father of the years Looked up to the rising sun, And said—“İn the bounds his path surrounds, There reigns no god but one: All faith beside hath grown faint and cold, The only god in the world is gold. ""Tis gold in the city proud, "Tis gold in the hamlet low, "I stood on Nimrod's tower, When it rose to meet the stars, And the boundless pride and the em; ire wide Brought tribute to the gods of old— But they ne'er were served like that mighty godī "They praise the christian's God, And they build him temples fair; For they bear from the holy place no sign "Still are the temples raised To the God of light and song, Who oft in their weariness look back "In groves and crowded marts, I have sought love's shrines in vain, Yet it may be that in silent hearts Their ruins still remain But scorch'd by fire, and stain'd with tears, "And has the world grown old In vain" said the shadowy sage, "And come at length to the age of goid, But not to the golden age? |