"His youth was innocent; his riper age

Marked with some act of goodness every day; And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and

sage,

Faded his last declining years away.

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went

To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

"That life was happy; every day he gave Thanks for the fair existence that was his; For a sick fancy made him not her slave, To mock him with her phantom miseries. No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

“And I am glad that he has lived thus long, And glad that he has gone to his reward;

VOL. I.-5

Nor can I deem that nature did him wrong,
Softly to disengage the vital cord.

For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to

die."

THE RIVULET.

THIS little rill, that from the springs

Of yonder grove its current brings,
Plays on the slope a while, and then
Goes prattling into groves again
Oft to its warbling waters drew

My little feet, when life was new.
When woods in early green were dressed,
And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, travelling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,

My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,

List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn,
And crop the violet on its brim,
With blooming cheek and open brow,
young and gay, sweet rill as thou.

As

And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. Words cannot tell how bright and gay The scenes of life before me lay. Then glorious hopes, that now to speak Would bring the blood into my cheek, Passed o'er me; and I wrote, on high, A name I deemed should never die.

Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still,

Yet tell, in grandeur of decay,

How swift the years have passed away, Since first, a child, and half afraid,

I wandered in the forest shade.

Thou, ever joyous rivulet,

Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ;
And sporting with the sands that pave
The windings of thy silver wave,

And dancing to thy own wild chime,
Thou laughest at the lapse of time.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear
My early childhood loved to hear;
As pure thy limpid waters run;
As bright they sparkle to the sun;
As fresh and thick the bending ranks
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks;
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as blue;
As green amid thy current's stress,
Floats the scarce-rooted watercress: