A CHILD'S GRAVE. O'ER yon Churchyard the storm may lower; One little bud shall linger there, 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 check hath faded In the cold breeze of death! Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet! But now Decay hath stilled its glancing; A few short months-and thou wert here! 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 Devil with a proof! Alas! alas! I seem to find Some torment for my wearied mind In every thing 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, In all its powdered pride? Is he the Coryphæus still Of winding 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 For, lingering long in fashion's scene, Aud 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, That sparkles as it flows. Be still the Fairy of the dance, And keep that light and merry glance, Yet do not, in your pride of place, Among the thousands that adore, (JUNE 25, 1821.) ON THE DEATH OF A SCHOOLFELLOW. TRANSLATED FROM SOME LATIN VERSES BY THE REV. E. C. HAWTREY. SNATCHED from us in thy sinless years, |