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A CHILD'S GRAVE.

O’ER yon Churchyard the storm may lower;

But, heedless of the wintry air,

One little bud shall linger there, A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years,

Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,

And sparkle in the moonlight, wet With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,

Instead of 'scutcheon or of stone,

It rises o'er thee, lonely one, Child of obscurity!

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 !

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A few short months—and thou wert here !

Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;

And what is thy menorial now?
A flower--and a Tear.

(1821.)

Vol. II.-12

A LETTER FROM ETON.

My dearest Cynthia, —

If you knew
Half of the toil P. C. goes through,
You'd never dip your spiteful pen
In Anger's bitter ink again,
Because the hapless author woos
No correspondent—save the Muse.

Was ever such a wretched elf?
I ha'n't a minute to myself!
My own and other people's cares
Are dinned incessant in my ears !
I can't get rid of Mr. Vapour,
With all his silly “midnight taper,”
Nor Mr. Musgrave's learned paper,

“ Diseases of the Hoof;"! E’en now, as thus I sit me down, Scared by your thunder and your frown,

Two Fiends are hid aloof;
Two Fiends in dark Cocytus dipped ;
A Blockhead with a manuscript,

A Devil with a proof!
Alas! alas! I seein to find
Some torment for my weary mind

In everything I see!
My duck is old,—my mutton tough,
To some they may be good enough,

They smell of “Press” to me;
And when I stoop my lips to drink,
I often shudder as I think
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, Fame and fair fices, loves and laurels, Sermons and sonriets, good and bad, I'm getting—not a little mad—:

But very mad indeed!

But you, who in your home of ease
Are far from sorrows such as these,
Maid of the archly smiling brow,
What folly are you following now?
With you, amid the mazy dance,
That came to us from clever France,
Does he, that bright and brilliant star,
The future Tully of the Bar,

Its present Vestris, glide?
Or does he quibble, stride, look big,
Assume the face of legal prig,
And charm you with his embryo wig,

In all its powdered pride ?

Is he the Coryphæus still
Of wiuding Waltz, and gay Quadrille ?
And is he talking fooleries
Of Ladies' love, and looks, and eyes,

And flirting with your fan?
Or does he prate of whens and whys,
Cross-questions, queries, and replies,
Cro. Car.Cro. Jac.—and Cro. Eliz.,

To puzzle all he can ?
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

Preferment—and a ball!

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,
Nor check the stream of unirth and wit

That sparkles as it flows.

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