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Torn from his mother's arms,—
And cares where love has no concern,
From hard controul and tyrant rules,
Youth comes; the toils and cares of life
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart
Then is not youth, as fancy tells,
Maturer manhood now arrives,
The dull realities of truth;
So reaches he the latter stage
Life's vain delusions are gone by,
Its idle hopes are o'er,
Yet age remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
THE PAINS OF SLEEP.
ERE on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
No wish conceived, no thought expressed!
Only a sense of supplication,
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, every where,
But yester-night I pray'd aloud
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me;
A lurid light, a trampling throng,
Sense of intolerable wrong,
And whom I scorn'd, those only strong!
Whether I suffered, or I did:
So two nights passed: the night's dismay
The third night, when my own loud scream
And having thus by tears subdued
To natures deepliest stain'd with sin :
Th' unfathomable hell within,
And whom I love, I love indeed.
A POET'S EPITAPH.
ART thou a Statesman, in the van
A Lawyer art thou ?-draw not nigh;
Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
Or art thou One of gallant pride,
Physician art thou? One all eyes;
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
A Moralist, perchance, appears,
Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Shut close the door, press down the latch;
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
But who is He with modest looks,
He is retired as noon-tide dew,
In common things that round us lie
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak, both Man and Boy,
The things which others understand.
-Come hither in thy hour of strength;
THE STOUT GENTLEMAN:
A Stage Coach Romance.
From "Bracebridge Hall, or the Humourists."
"I'll cross it, though it blast me!"
IT was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering; but I was still feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn! whoever has had the luck to experience one, can alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my bed-room looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck; there were several half-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable, crest fallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit; his drooping tail, matted as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back; near the cart was a half-dozing cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapour rising from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a doghouse hard by, uttered something every now and then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; every thing in short, was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor.