A CHILD'S GRAVE. O'ER yon Churchyard the storm may lower; Unscathed by long revolving years, And where thine humble ashes lie, Mild was thy voice as Zephyr's breath, Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded! But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded In the cold breeze of death! Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet! But now Decay hath still'd its glancing; Warmly thy little heart was dancing, But it hath ceased to beat! A few short months-and thou wert here! (1821.) VOL. II.-12 A LETTER FROM ETON. My dearest Cynthia,— If you knew Half of the toil P. C. goes through, Was ever such a wretched elf? E'en now, as thus I sit me down, Two Fiends in dark Cocytus dipped; A Blockhead with a manuscript, A Devil with a proof! Alas! alas! I seem to find Some torment for my weary mind In everything I see! My duck is old,-my mutton tough,- I taste the taste of Printer's ink In chocolate and tea! And what with friends, and foes, and hits Sent slyly out by little wits, A fulminating breed; And what with Critics, Queries, Quarrels, But you, who in your home of ease Its present Vestris, glide? Or does he quibble, stride, look big, And charm you with his embryo wig, Is he the Coryphæus still Of winding Waltz, and gay Quadrille? Of Ladies' love, and looks, and eyes, Or does he prate of whens and whys, Is he the favourite of to-day, Or do you smile with kinder ray On him, the grave Divine; Whose periods sure were formed alike In pulpit to amaze and strike, In drawing-room to shine? Alas! alas! methinks I see Amid those walks of revelry, A dignitary's fall; For, lingering long in fashion's scene, He'll die a dancer, not a dean, And find it hard to choose between I do not bid thee weep, my dear, I would not see a single tear In eyes so bright as those; Nor dim the ray that love hath lit, |