Down fall my tresses, face and bosom veil- | And your heart can recall-and mine often ing, That none may know me till to know be un availing ; Then mockingly I fling aside the veil and please me With their vain hope, and vainer haste, to seize me. And who is this dark form that follows thee with weeping, Ever as a shadow on thy bright track keeping? Her name's Repentance. When I fleet quickly by them, She stoppeth, weeping, vainly weeping, nigh them. goes back With a sigh and a tear to the hours— When we gazed on her form as she followed the track Of the butterfly's wing through the flowers; When in her young joy she would smile with delight On its plumage of mingling dyes, Till she let it go free, and looked after its flight To see if it entered the skies? But she wandered away from the home of her youth One spring ere the roses were blown, But thou, poor mortal, precious moments For she fancied the world was a temple of truth, And she measured all hearts by her own; She fed on a vision and lived on a dream, And she followed it over the wave, And she sought where the moon has a milder gleam For a home, and they gave her a grave. There was one whom she loved, though she breathed it to none, For love of her soul was a part, And he said he loved her, but he left her alone With the worm of despair in her heart; And oh, with what anguish we counted, each day, The roses that died on her cheek, Yet her eye was as mild and as blue to the last, Though shadows stole over its beam, And her smiles are remembered, since long they are past, Like the smiles we have seen in a dream; And it may be that fancy had woven a spell, But I think, though her tones were as clear, "LAUGH, LIKE ME, AT EVERYTHING." TH HERE'S nothing here on earth deserves They were somewhat more soft, and their Such doleful looks would not be found murmurings fell Like a dirge on the listening ear. And while sorrow threw round her a holier grace, Though she always was gentle and kind, Yet I think that the softness which stole o'er her face Had a softening power o'er the mind. But it might be her looks and her tones were more dear And we valued them more in decay, As we treasure that last fading flower of the year, For we felt she was passing away. She never complained, but she loved to the last, And the tear in her beautiful eye To frighten us poor laughing sinners. One plagues himself about the sun, And puzzles on, through every weather, And when he'll leave us altogether; Whether he shine at six or seven? At last they'll plague him out of heaven. Another spins from out his brains. Fine cobwebs to amuse his neighbors, And gets, for all his toils and pains, Reviewed and laughed at for his labors; Often told that her thoughts were gone back Fame is his star, and fame is sweet, to the past And the youth who had left her to die. But mercy came down, and the maid is at rest And praise is pleasanter than honey: And Messrs. Longman pay the Where the palm tree sighs o'er her at But laugh, like me, at everything. even, And the dew that weeps over the turf on her My brother gave his heart away breast Is the tear of a far foreign heaven. THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY. money. To Mercandotti when he met her; gone to Sweden to forget her. I had a charmer, too, and sighed And raved all day and night about her : She caught a cold, poor thing! and died, And I am just as fat without her. Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything. For tears are vastly pretty things, But make one very thin and taper, And sighs are music's sweetest strings, But sound most beautiful on paper; Thought is the sage's brightest star : Her gems alone are worth his finding; But, as I'm not particular, And nurse thy waning light in faith I came not, and I cry to save I'd tell thee where my youth hath been, Please God, I'll keep on "never minding." Of perils past, of glories seen; Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything. Oh, in this troubled world of ours. A laughter-mine's a glorious treasure, And separating thorns from flowers Is half a pain and half a pleasure; And why be grave instead of gay? Why feel athirst while folks are quaffing? Oh, trust me, whatsoe'er they say, There's nothing half so good as laughing. Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything. G. M. FITZGERALD. MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. OH, rise and sit in soft attire, Wait but to know my soul's desire; A crown of brightest stars to thee! I'd speak of all my youth hath done And ask of things to choose and shun, And smile at all thy needless fears, But bow before thy solemn tears. WIT OF RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. ROGUE OR FOOL? NE day Sheridan met two royal dukes in St. James's street, and the younger flippantly remarked, "I say, Sherry, we have just been discussing whether you are a greater fool or rogue. What is your opinion, old boy?" Sheridan bowed, smiled, and as he took each of them by the arm replied, Why, faith, I believe I am between both.' 66 SHERIDAN AND HIS SON. "The two Sheridans," says Kelly, "were supping with me one night after the opera, at a period when Tom expected to get into Parliament. "I think, father,' said he, 'that many men. who are called great patriots in the House of Commons are great humbugs. For my own part, if I get into Parliament, I will pledge myself to no party, but write upon my forehead in legible characters, "To be let." "And under that, Tom,' said his father, 'write, "Unfurnished.' "Be the consequence what it may, money I must have," said Tom. "If that be the case, my dear Tom," said the affectionate parent, "you will find a case of loaded pistols up stairs, and a horse ready saddled in the stable. The night is dark, and you are within half a mile of Hounslow Heath. "I understand what you mean," said Tom, "but I tried that last night. I unluckily stopped Peake, your treasurer, who told me that you had been beforehand with him, and had robbed him of every sixpence he had in the world." SHERIDAN'S COOLNESS. Hayden, the painter, says that once, when Sheridan was dining at Somerset House and they were all in fine feather, the servant rushed in, exclaiming, 66 Sir, the house is on fire!" "Bring another bottle of claret," said Sheridan; "it is not my house." WHO WILL TAKE THE CHAIR? Once, being on a Parliamentary committee, he arrived when all the members were assembled and seated and about to commence business. He looked round in vain for a seat, and then, with a bow and a quaint twinkle Tom took the joke, but was even with him in his eyes, said, on another occasion. "Will any gentleman move, that I might take the chair?" SHERIDAN AND CUMBERLAND. Cumberland's children induced their father to take them to see "The School for Scandal." |