THE PLEASURES OF VICISSITUDE. WHEN all the sky's serenely blue, Ye wretched few deprived of bliss When roads are good and tolls are few, I feel and pity the distress And horses safe and chaises new, And postboys drive us carefully, Then all-monotonous the days, Then beds seem hard and inns are cold, But when across the vault of night And rear and start confusedly; Or when a drunken postboy drives Then every steep's unguarded flank, But if those ills we steer between, Which makes your lives drag heavily. Continual good is sure to cloy; WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. Upon the shutting flowers; like souls at rest, Mother, I love thy grave! The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, wave Above thy child? 'Tis a sweet flower, yet must Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow: And I could love to die To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams, And I must linger here To stain the plumage of my sinless years, JAFFÀR. INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF SHELLEY. SHELLEY, take this to thy dear memory: Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, To praise the generous is to think of thee. He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will; Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier, The poor peer man's hope, the friend without a The richest in the Tartar's diadem- High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, “This too I owe to thee, Jaffàr !'' LEIGH HUNT. AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. HOW OW sweet it were if without feeble Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, Bring me this man," the caliph cried. The News of dear friends, and children who have man never Was brought was gazed upon. The mutes Been dead indeed, as we shall know for began ever! Alas! we think not what we daily see Made a man's eyes friends with delicious A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart |