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“And oh!” said the minstrel, “strange, in sooth,

Are the spells which Fancy weaves, For now she has given a voice of truth,

To the fading, falling leaves ! ”

BLACKLOCK'S PICTURE OF HIMSELF.

While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, And touch each feature with a trembling hand, Deign, lovely selfl with art and nature's pride, To mix the colors, and the pencil guide.

Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind;
How vast a crowd by self, like me are blind!
By self the fop in magic colors shown,
Though scorned by every eye, delights his own;
When age and wrinkles seize the conquering maid,
Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade.
Then, wonder-working self, begin the lay;
Thy charms to others, as to me, display.

Straight is my person, but of little size;
Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes ;
My youthful down is, like my talents, rare;
Politely distant stands each single hair.
My voice, too rough to charm a lady's ear;
So smooth a child may listen without fear;
Not form'd in cadence soft and warbling lays,
To sootbe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways.

My form so fine, so regular, so new,
My port so manly, and so fresh my hue,
Oft as I meet the crowd, they laughing say,
“See, see Memento Mori cross the way."
The ravish'd Proserpine, at last, we know,
Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau;
But, thanks to nature, none from me need fly.
One heart the devil could wound-80 cannot I.

Yet though my person fearless may be seen,
There is some danger in my graceful mien :
Tor, as some vessel, tossed by wind and tide,
Bounds o'er the waves, and rocks from side to side;
In just vibration thus I always move:
This who can view, and not be forced to love !
Haill charming self! by whose prosperous aid,
My form in all its glory stands display'd:
Be present, still; with inspiration kind,
Let the same faithful colors paint the mind.

.

Like all mankind, wita vanity I'm blessed,
Conserves of wit I never yet possessed.
To strong desires my heart an easy prey,
Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway.
This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe;
The next I wonder why I should do so.
Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye;
Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie.
I ne'er for satire, torture common sense;
Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense.
Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown;
Wish well to all, and yet do good to none.
Unmerited contempt I hate to bear;
Yet on my faults, like others, am severe.
Dishonest flames my bosom never fire:
The bad I pity, and the good admire:
Fond of the muse, to her devote my days,
And scribble, not for pudding, but for praise.

These careless lines if any virgin hears,
Perhaps in pity to my joyless years,
She may consent a generous flame to own;
And I no longer sigh the nights alone.
But, should the fair, affected, vain or nice,
Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice;
Cry, “Save us, Heaven! a spectre, not a man!"
Her hartshorn snatch, or interpage her fan :

If I my tender overture repeat,
01 may my vows her kind reception meet;
May she new graces on my form bestow,
And with tall honors dignify my brow.

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.
Though brutes are placed a rank below,
Happy for man, could he say so.

THE YOUNG.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

The world may believe in the wisdom time teaches,

And trust in its truth as the anchor of age,
But many and cold is the winter that reaches

Not only the head, but the heart of the sage.
There are lights on the first steps of life that awaken,

Oh, never again on the far journey flung,
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 clungBut 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,

Where lies the lost gold of our days at the goalHath friendship a glance that she ne'er was deceived in,

Oh! they fall from us early, those stars of the soul ! Have we trusted the light, have we toil'd for the treasure,

Though dimness and doubt o'er the searcher's path hung-. And oh, could we pour to Time's truth the full measure

Of trust that is found in the faith of the young!

Thou dreamer of age, there were themes of proud story,

And song that rose on thee like stars from the sea,
Old Time hath no scythe for the might of their glory-

But how hath that glory departed from thee!
Thy soul yields no more to the spell of their splendor,

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 sprungAnd blessed are the lessons of love that will meet thee

From mem'ries laid up in the graves of the young

Bright 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
That stands as the tomb of Babylon,

On her ancient river's bound
For the land hath kept no trace beside
Of the old Chaldean's power and pride

Upon that lonely height,

To mark the morning climb The skies of his native solitude, The genius of the desert stood,

And saw the conqueror Time Approach ón pinions swift and dim, But ever welcome was he to him.

For his journey left no track

On the long untrodden sand-
No human hopes or homes were there,
No blooming face or flowing hair,

To fear his withering hand;
And the genius greeted him who made
So wide the bounds of his scepter's shade.

They spoke of their ancient swav,

Of the temples rich and vast
That mouldered in their sight away;

And the scorn of ages passed
O’er the desert-dweller's lip and brow,
As he said — “What gods do they worship now!"

The father of the years

Looked up to the rising sun,
And said “In the bounds his path surrounde,

There reigns no god but one:
All faith beside hath grown faint and cold,
The only god in the world is gold.

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