Eternal, and the oblivious shroud of death,

Should now enwrap us, than that all around

Should seem to hint that we had lived too long;
Useless and unregarded, as the branch

A playful boy now plucks, now casts away

Yet live, and long shall flourish, when no more Our eyes shall measure their expanding shade, These antique chesnuts; and this tapering lime Crowning the shelved bank: that well-known yew Shall still be climbed by many youthful groups Of generations yet unborn,—as once by us. How little shall they think, when on the boughs They ride and shout, or in the central seat

As from a throne, direct the busy sport,

That they but act again the early feats

Their ancestors were proud of once; or that

They ne'er shall reach a scenè more gay than this

In life's uninteresting comedy!

Not the rich vale which kings might weep to leave

For Abyssinia's throne; not that where rolls

Peneus his cataracts, with verdant shrubs

O'ercanopied; nor that, whose perfumed flowers
Reflect their waving beauties in the clear
Orontes; (though the ever-glowing tints
Of poesy illumine all their haunts)
Mark with a trace so durable, or with
Such pleasing images usurp the soul,
As thou, dear stream, whose current intersects
This tranquil valley: the surrounding groves,
The scattered trees, in quick recurrence wake
The recollection of what once we were,

Careless of future ill, ungrieved at past:

In those no recollections live: from Tempe's rocks,
From Daphne's bowers, we turn refreshed to thee,
And cherish thee the more: nor can be viewed,
Without a grateful sigh, the tufted grove,
Beneath whose pendent boughs a mother's care
First bathed her timorous infant; or the lawn,
O'er whose smooth waving green a father's eye
Solicitous first watched the glad attempt
Of boyish years to urge the tardy steed.

How far from thee, beloved stream, from thee

And peace, my steps have wandered! the rolling years

Leave no impression of an hour, like those
Enjoyed (but ne'er to be enjoyed again!)
Upon thy banks.-With melancholy step
I pace thy margin; now no more by sports
Delighted; nor aroused from anxious thought,
Save, when some friendly voice, or gentle smile,
For one short moment may elude the sense
Of ill; save, when the Muse revisits me,
Singing of other times, and wraps my soul,
Borne from itself, in an enchanted dream:
If any dream can soothe a soul depress'd!
For Time hath scattered all the vernal flowers
Of Hope; and, for the past, a barren waste
Hath left, without one cheering retrospect;

And o'er the future, spread an awful cloud
With dubious portents hung; while life's dull lamp
Wavers, and trembles at each passing breeze.

THE END.