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A CHILD'S GRAVE.
O’ER yon Churchyard the storm may lower;
A still and trembling flower.
Unscathed by long revolving years,
With the pale dew of tears.
And where thine humble ashes lie,
Child of obscurity
Mild was thy voice as Zephyr's breath,
In the cold breeze of death !
Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet !
But it hath ceased to beat I
A few short months—and thou wert here !
A flower—and a Tear.
A LETTER FROM ETON.
My dearest Cynthia,
Was ever such a wretched elf?
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 faces, loves and laurels, Sermons and sonnets, good and bad, I’m getting—not a little mad— But very mad indeed
But you, who in your home of ease
In all its powdered pride : Is he the Coryphaeus still Of winding Waltz, and gay Quadrille 2 And is he talking fooleries Of Ladies' love, and looks, and eyes, And flirting with your fan Ż Or does he prate of whens and whys, Cross-questions, queries, and replies, Cro. Car.—Cro. Jac.—and Cro. Eliz., To puzzle all he cano 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 8 Alas! alas! methinks I see, Amid those walks of revelry, A dignitary’s fall; Tor, lingering long in fashion’s scene, He'll die a dancer, not a dean, Aud find it hard to choose between Preferment—and a ball !
I do not bid thee weep, my dear,
A poor one though it be
Why, waste a thought on me !
(JUNE 25, 1821.)
ON THE DEATH OF A SCHOOLFELLOW.
TRANSLATED FROM SOME LATIN VERSES BY THE REl". E. C. HAWTREY.
SNATCHED from us in thy sinless years,
And swell with unavailing tears