OLINTHUS GREGORY, L.L.D., F.R.A.S., &c.

"THE following lines allude to Dr. Gregory's late domestic calamity. Mr. Boswell Gregory, his eldest son, was drowned by the boat's upsetting as he was returning home by water to his father's house at Woolwich."

Is there a spot where Pity's foot,

Although unsandalled, fears to tread,
A silence where her voice is mute,

Where tears, and only tears, are shed?
It is the desolated home,

Where Hope was yet a recent guest,
Where Hope again may never come,
Or come, and only speak of rest.

They gave my hand the pictured scroll,
And bade me only fancy there

A parent's agony of soul,

A parent's long and last despair;

The sunshine on the sudden wave,

Which closed above the youthful head,

Mocking the green and quiet grave,
Which waits the time-appointed dead.

I thought upon the lone fire-side,
Begirt with all familiar thought,

The future, where a father's pride

So much from present promise wrought;

The sweet anxiety of fears,

Anxious from love's excess alone,

The fond reliance upon years

More precious to us than our own:

All past-then weeping words there came
From out a still and darkened room,
They could not bear to name a name
Written so newly on the tomb.

They said he was so good and kind,

The voices sank, the eyes grew dim;

So much of love he left behind,

So much of life had died with him.

OLINTHUS GREGORY, LL.D. F.R.A.S.

Ah, pity for the long beloved,
Ah, pity for the early dead;
The young, the promising, removed
Ere life a light or leaf had shed.
Nay, rather pity those whose doom
It is to wait and weep behind,

The father, who within the tomb

Sees all life held most dear enshrined.

IVY BRIDGE, DEVONSHIRE.

Oн, recall not the past, though this valley be filled
With all we remember, and all we regret ;
The flowers of its summer have long been distilled,
The essence has perish'd, ah! let us forget.
What avails it to mourn over hours that are gone,
O'er illusions by youth and by fantasy nurst?
Alas! of the few that are lingering, none

Wear the light or the hues that encircled the first.

Alas for the spring time! alas for our youth!

The grave has no slumber more cold than the heart, When languid and darkened it sinks into truth, And sees the sweet colours of morning depart. Life still has its falsehoods to lure and to leave, But they cannot delude like the earlier light; We know that the twilight encircles the eve, And sunset is only the rainbow of night.