RICHMOND. THAMES swept along in summer pride, Light airs were glancing o'er the tide, Cheerful the landscape's sunny green, Yet still, in pensive mood reclined, The insect tribes, but newly born, Were flaunting in the awakening ray; For here, of old, his booty won, Or floating by, in gallant show, Gay beauty glanced at monarch's jest, Sat Change, a dark and threatening guest. Their mirth is sped; their gravest theme Then swept to Time's unfathomed sea. Yes! all, beneath or change or chance, REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. John Kenyon. Vain thought! - Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the poet bless, Who, murmuring here a later ditty, Could find no refuge from distress Now let us, as we float along, William Wordsworth. Richmond, Yorkshire. STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. METHINKS it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build, but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition? Ah, no! For see, they would pin him below In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a fear and a prey. To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin that but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, To Riches? Alas, 't is in vain : Who hide in their turns have been hid; The treasures are squandered again; And here in the grave are all metals forbid, Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute at their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! They have withered and died, Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear; Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold head and around the dark stone The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, skies. Herbert Knowles. Ribbledin, the River. RIBBLEDIN; OR, THE CHRISTENING. N° name hast thou, lone streamlet Here, if a bard may christen thee, I'll call thee "Ribbledin "; Here, where first murmuring from thine urn, Thy voice deep joy expresses; The wildness of thy tresses. Here, while beneath the umbrage Of Nature's forest bower, |