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 stilled its glancing;
Warmly thy little heart was dancing,

But it hath ceased to beat I

A few short months—and thou wert here !
Isope sat upon thy youthful brow ;
And what is thy memorial now %

A flower—and a Tear.

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;”
L'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 seem to find
Some torment for my wearied 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 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
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 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,
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 mirth and wit
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,
Porget your parted lover's face,

A poor one though it be
Among the thousands that adore,
Believe not one can love you more ;
And when, retired from ball and rout,
You've nothing else to think about,

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,
To thee we bid the lament flow,

And swell with unavailing tears
A brother's and a parent’s woe.