TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF A DOG. LIE here, without a record of thy worth, Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise ; Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear I grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past; Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share; Best gift of God-in thee was most intense; THE SMALL CELANDINE. THERE is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine, That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; And, the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again! When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old. "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." To be a Prodigal's Favourite-then, worse truth, O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth BEGGARS. SHE had a tall man's height or more; Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown ; To head those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian Isles. Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea, Such woes, I knew, could never be ; And yet a boon I gave her; for the Creature Was beautiful to see-a weed of glorious feature! left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy The Taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. The Other wore a rimless crown In their fraternal features I could trace Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit Wings let them have, and they may flit Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, They dart across my path-and lo, Your Mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered-"she is dead :"I looked reproof-they saw-but neither hung his head. "She has been dead, Sir, many a day" "Sweet Boys! you're telling me a lie ; It was your Mother, as I say!" And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come !" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. WHERE are they now, those wanton Boys? And ornaments of seemlier pride, More fresh, more bright, than Princes wear; What good or evil have they seen Spirits of beauty and of grace! They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed As with the breath of one sweet flower,— A time to overrule the power Of discontent, and check the birth |