No sire, his labour o'er, will come The gipsies, wild and wandering race, The feast obtained,-how, when, and where ? While swarthy forms, with clamour loud, Around the smoking cauldron crowd. Forth trips a laughing dark-eyed lass, THE FIRST GREY HAIR. THE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow, The faded form is often marked by sorrow more than years,- But she hath been a happy wife: the lover of her youth She look'd upon her raven locks, what thoughts did they recall? Oh! not of nights when they were decked for banquet or for ball; They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to check, With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck. She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair, And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there; She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls she prized so much. And now she sees her first grey hair! oh, deem it not a crime For her to weep, when she beholds the first footmark of Time ! She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase, And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease. "Tis not the tear of vanity, for beauty on the wane; Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom againIt cannot but remember, with a feeling of regret, The spring for ever gone,—the summer sun so nearly set. Ah, lady! heed the monitor! thy mirror tells thee truth; THE NEGLECTED CHILD. I NEVER was a favourite,— On me, with half the tenderness That blessed her fairer child : I've turned away, to hide my tears,- How blessed are the beautiful! I learned to know thy worth: And wished-for others wished it too- I'm sure I was affectionate; But in my sister's face There was a look of love that claimed But when I raised my lip to meet But oh! that heart too keenly felt I saw my sister's lovely form With gems and roses decked: I did not covet them; but oft, I envied her the privilege But soon a time of triumph came,- For sickness o'er my sister's form The features, once so beautiful, Now wore the hue of death; 'Twas then, unwearied, day and night, And fearlessly upon my breast I pillowed her poor head. She lived!-and loved me for my care,- I was a lonely being once, UPON THY TRUTH RELYING. THEY say we are too young to love,- In scorn they bid us both renounce I know that Pleasure's hand will throw I know how lonesome I shall find I'll kiss each word that's traced by thee,— When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by, And, oh! how proud of being loved By her they have been praising! But should Detraction breathe thy name, The world's reproof defying, I'd love thee,-laud thee,-trust thee still,Upon thy truth relying. E'en those who smile to see us part, Shall see us meet with wonder ; Such trials only make the heart That truly loves grow fonder. Our sorrows past shall be our pride, When with each other vying: Thou wilt confide in him who lives Upon thy truth relying. OH SAY NOT 'TWERE A KEENER BLOW. Ои say not 'twere a keener blow, The girl who rears a sickly plant, Or cherishes a wounded dove, Will love them most while most they want Time must have changed that fair young brow, |