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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 !
A few short months—and thou wert here !
Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;
And what is thy menorial now?
A LETTER FROM ETON.
My dearest Cynthia, —
If you knew
Was ever such a wretched elf?
“ 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;
A Devil with a proof!
In everything I see!
They smell of “Press” to me;
In chocolate and tea!
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
Its present Vestris, glide?
In all its powdered pride ?
Is he the Coryphæus still
And flirting with your fan?
To puzzle all he can ?
On him, the grave Divine;
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,
In eyes so bright as those;
That sparkles as it flows.