CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE. BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES. So ends Childe Harold his last Pilgrimage! Stood mocking;—and its dart uplifting high, And old Ilissus sighed —“ Die, generous exile, die!" I will not ask sad Pity to deplore His wayward errors, who thus early died: Still less, Childe Harold, now thou art no more, Will I say aught of genius misapplied, Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride:But I will bid the' Arcadian cypress wave, Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side, And pray thy spirit may such quiet have, That not one thought unkind be murmured o'er thy grave. So ends Childe Harold his last Pilgrimage! And follow to the grave a Briton's funeral. Slow move the plumed hearse, the mourning train; Silently passing to that village fane Where, Harold, thy forefathers mouldering lie;- Bursting Death's silence--could that mother speak, She thus might give the welcome of the dead :- Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar Of earth, and fretting passions waste the heart no more. “Here rest!—On all thy wanderings peace repose, No interruption this long silence knows; STANZAS. I never cast a flower away, The gift of one who cared for me; I never looked a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart I never spoke the word "Farewell!" Blackwood's Magazine. THERE was a time when I could feel And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,- Lady, the mist is on my sight; The chill is on my brow; My day is night, my bloom is blight; I never talk about the clouds, I never wander forth alone Upon the mountain's brow; I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone! I never wish to raise a veil, I never tell a lie; I cannot kneel as once I did; I've quite forgot my bow; I never do as I am bid, I'm not a lover now! I make strange blunders every day, If I would be gallant; Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey, I fly from folly, though it flows I don't object to length of nose,- The Muse's steed is very fleet,- The Poet hunts a quaint conceit,— I've learnt to utter yours and you, And, oh! I can't endure a Blue !— I find my Ovid very dry, Tom Moore for Mr. Mill: And Belles may read, and Beaux may write, I care not who or how; I burnt my Album Sunday night; I'm not a lover now! I don't encourage idle dreams Just foaming from the cow; I'm not a lover now! When Laura sings young hearts away, I'm deafer than the deep; When Leonora goes to play, I sometimes go to sleep; When Mary draws her white gloves out, "Too hot to kick one's heels about!" I'm busy now with state affairs, I ask the price of rail-road shares, And this is life! no verdure blooms Upon the withered bough, I save a fortune in perfumes ; I'm not a lover now! I may be, yet, what others are, The flattered star of Bench or Bar, Come shower or sunshine,-hope or fear,- My heart and lute are broken here; I'm not a lover now! Lady, the mist is on my sight, The chill is on my brow; My day is night, my bloom is blight; Friendship's Offering. THE HOUR OF PHANTASY. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. THERE is an hour when all our past pursuits, The dreams and passions of our early day,— The unripe blessedness that dropped away From our young tree of life,-like blasted fruits, All rush upon the soul: some beauteous form Of one we loved and lost; or dying tone, Haunting the heart with music that has flown, Still lingers near us, with an awful charm! I love that hour,—for it is deeply fraught With images of things no more to be; Visions of hope, and pleasure madly sought, And sweeter dreams of love and purity;— The poesy of heart, that smiled in pain, And all my boyhood worshipped-but vain! Literary Souvenir. |