Like some long-forgotten face,
A moment seen in Memory's glass;
Or like some deep-buried joy
Woke to life by Memory,

Instant doom'd to fade and die;
Or like some old, native lay
Heard, perchance, when far away,
Bringing back the thought of home,
As thro' distant lands we roam :
Like a treasure found in sleep
Which we clasp, secure to keep,
Fearing lest the thing we deem
All so real, prove a dream,
And, sudden waking, find the prize
Has fled our grasp, and doating eyes;
Or like the joy of friends who meet
At midnight-hour, but just to greet,
But not behold each other's face,
Whilst passing thro' a wilderness.
Life is like a burning taper,
Quick consum'd,—a fleeting vapour
Like the lights and shades that pass
Rapid o'er the wavy grass;
Like the fragile gossamer
Scatter'd by a breath of air;
Like the dew of early morn
Sun-absorb'd as soon as born;
Or the glow-worm's paly ray
Fading in the light of day:
Like a bubble on a river,

A moment seen,-then gone for ever! Like a meteor, brief and bright,

Passing o'er the brow of night;

Like a rapid shooting-star

Seen a moment from afar ;

Like the cloud-form'd, bright pavilion,
Dyed in purple and vermilion,
Which enshrines the giant sun,
When his mighty race is run,

In which he lays him down to rest,
Curtain'd in the glowing West,-

Tho' bright the flush, how brief the ray,
The hectic hue, of dying Day!-

Like the fair face of the moon,
When some envious cloud too soon
Dims her lamp, uphung on high,
And sudden darkness veils the sky;
Like mists that speed o'er hill and mountain,
Or like the Spirit of the fountain,
Robed in iris-hues, which plays,
Sparkling, midst the dewy rays,
But is instant fled and gone,
If a cloud obscure the sun;
Like the sparks that upward fly.
What is life? "T is vanity!
Brightest things art first to perish,—
All we love and fondly cherish.—

Ah! where is she, the good, the wise,
"The cynosure of neighbouring eyes,"
The dark-eyed maid, with sunny smile,
The poet-child of Mona's Isle,'
Of genius bright, and fancy free,
That sang her Island Minstrelsy?
Alas! in youth and beauty's bloom
Cut down, and hurried to the tomb :
The lov'd, the lovely, loving one,-
The minstrel-maid,—is dead and gone :

1 The late Miss Esther Nelson.

She of the bright imaginings,—
Ideal, pure, and loveliest things,-
That form'd her wild, poetic dreams
Midst haunted dells and wizard streams,
The minstrel of the magic wand,
That reign'd the Queen of fairy-land,-
The maid of wild romantic brain,---
The bard of Fancy's bright domain,
That used to pour her raptur'd song,
Her "wood-notes wild," our hills among,--
The poet-bird,-has pass'd away,

No more to charm us with her lay,—

Sweet bird that shunn'd the noise of folly, "Most musical, most melancholy !"—

No more our love-lorn nightingale
Shall soothe us with her tender tale,
For she has fled to brighter skies,
Up to the realms of paradise,
And, midst unutterable things,
Her song of triumph blissful sings,
Whilst we are doomed to linger here,
To mourn her loss, and pour a tear
Melodious o'er her early bier :
But long as Memory holds her seat,
And hearts with fond affections beat,
Her deathless image still shall beam,
Bright as a seraph in a dream,—
The dark-eyed maid, with sunny smile,
The poet-child of Mona's Isle,-
And young Hadassah's name shall be
Fraught with a spell, a witchery,
Deathless as her sweet poesy.

CHILDHOOD'S SPORTS.

"The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety."

"Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see

The heav'ns laugh with you in your jubilee ;

"MEN are but children of a larger growth:"

And, ah! what joy to steal a holiday,
To flee from all the carking cares of life,
Forget the man, and be a child again;
And, midst a band of happy little ones,
Join in their pastimes and their mirthful sports;
Or with them roam in springtide's smiling prime,—
The blooming childhood of the opening year,—
Through daisy-spotted fields, and primrose haunts,
Midst all the "flow'ry, painted populace,"
That throng the meads, and "live ambrosial lives."
What joy! to see the lamb-like innocents
Sporting and bounding o'er the verdant plain,
Wild as a playful herd of tripping fawns,
Free as the breeze that lifts their flowing hair,
And fans their blooming faces with its wings;
Or see them gather'd in a graceful group,
Eager, in youthful rivalry, to rob

Some cowslip bank of all its golden stores,

As if such spoil were their inheritance,

And wild-flowers bloom'd and smil'd for them alone :

The more they pluck, the more they still desire,
And no satiety or langour know.

At length, some changeful mood, as with a spell,
Suspends their toil; the busy group unbinds,
And off they dart, like birds upon the wing,
For other sports, and pleasures ever new.
But one there is, all paramount, which seems
An inbred instinct of the youthful heart,-

That passion strange which prompts them one and all,
Through infancy, and youth, and school-boy days,
To plod the same unwearied, daily round,
And peer and pry in every bush and briar,
Or hedge-row green, in garden, field, or dell,
In search of bird-nests,-all absorbing joy !-
And if, perchance, one solitary prize
Their labour crown,—one little, downy nest
With tiny eggs, or tender, callow brood,-
Unconscious things, close nestled, snug, and warm,
That ope, instinctively, their innocent mouths,
If but a twig or leaf be gently stirr'd,—
Ah me! what joy, what exultation reigns!
What eager looks of infant wonderment
And peering curiosity are seen!

What antics strange of rapturous delight,
And shouts of triumph mark the lucky hour!
But, still, their joy is temper'd, blameless, pure;
For these sweet innocents are rightly school'd,
Train'd from their early infancy to know
And feel the universal law of love;
And they would think it cruelty and sin
To rob or spoil the wondrous, beauteous prize;
For, as their parents dear they dearly love,
The parent birds they early learn to love,
And strive, with all their little arts, to hide
And guard their nests from injury or wrong.