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, All but the brave Mondeer. He, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this 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. OW sweet it were if without feeble fright, Ho Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 'Bring me this man," the caliph cried. The News of dear friends, and children who have man Was brought-was gazed upon. The mutes The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords!" cried he; "From bonds far worse Jaffàr delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears, never Been dead indeed, as we shall know for ever! Alas! we think not what we daily see Made man's eyes friends with delicious A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart |