Miss Eliza Cook. Through the shadow of the world we sweep into the younger day:
The bauble from my soul away; I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring:The world at auction here to-day!
Even therefore grieve I for those gallant yeomen, England's peculiar and appropriate sons, Known in no other land. Each boasts his hearth And field as free as the best lord his barony, Owing subjection to no human vassalage Save to their king and law. Hence are the7 resolute,
Leading the van on every day of battle, As men who know the blessings they defend. Hence are they frank and generous in peace, As men who have their portion in its plenty. No other kingdom shows such worth and happi-
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Veil'd in such low estate.
Walter Scott's Halidon Hill.
Let me not live (quoth he)
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here After my flame lacks oil; to be the snuff The mettle of your pasture: let us swear Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt All but new things disdain; whose judgments are not; Mere feathers of their garments; whose con-
Youth is a bubble blown up with breath, Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death, Whose way is wilderness, whose inn is penance, And stoop gallant age, the host of grievance.
Spenser's Shepherd's Calender.
Be affable and courteous in youth, that You may be honour'd in age. Roses that Lose their colours, keep their savours, and pluck'd From the stalk, are put to the still. Cotonea, Because it boweth when the sun riseth, Is sweetest when it is oldest: and children, Which in their tender years sow courtesy, Shall in their declining states reap pity. Lilly's Sappho and Phaon.
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold; Youth is wild and age is tame. Age I do abhor thee;
Youth I do adore thee;
O, my love, my love is young: Age I do defy thee;
O sweet shepherd hie thee, For methinks thou stay'st too long.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd: And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course un. trimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
I'll not practise any violent means to stay Th' unbridled course of youth in him: for that Restrain'd grows more impatient; and, in kind, Like to the eager, but the gen'rous grey-hound, Who, ne'er so little from his game withheld, Turns head, and leaps up at his holder's throat. Jonson's Every Man in His Humour.
Gather the rose-buds while ye may, Old time is still a flying;
And that same flower that blooms to-day, To morrow shall be dying.
The snake each year fresh skin resumes, And eagles change their aged plumes; The faded rose each spring receives A fresh red tincture on her leaves: But if your beauties once decay, You never know a second May.
O then be wise, and whilst your season Affords you days for sport, do reason; Spend not in vain your life's short hour, But crop in time your beauty's flow'r; Which will away, and doth together Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.
Youthful blood, if checkt unseasonably, Becomes more insolent and impetuous, More vitiated and corrupt, than if Its natural course had not been hinder'd; The age of youth is the strong reign of Passion, and vice does ride in triumph Upon the wheels of vehement desire, Which run with infinite celerity, When the body drives the chariot, They can't be stopp'd on a sudden; Art and deliberation must be us'd.
Nevile's Poor Scholar. Something of youth, I in old age approve; But more the marks of age in youth I love. Who this observes, may in his body find Decrepit age, but never in his mind.
Intemp'rate youth, by sad experience found, Ends in an age imperfect and unsound.
Of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure, Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure. Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace, A large provision for so short a race:
Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast, That in the valley of decline are lost, And virtue with peculiar charms appears, Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years Yet age, by long experience well inform'd, Well read, well temper'd, with religion warm'd, That fire abated which impels rash youth,
More moderate gifts might have prolong'd his Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth,
Too early fitted for a better state:
But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay, He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.
As time improves the grape's authentic juice, Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, And claims a rev'rence in its short'ning day, That 't is an honour and a joy to pay.
What are all thy boasted treasures? Tender sorrows, transient pleasures? Anxious hopes, and jealous fears, Laughing hours, and mourning years? Deck'd with brightest tints at morn, At twilight, with'ring on a thorn; Like the gentle rose of spring, Chill'd by ev'ry zephyr's wing: Ah! how soon its colour flies, Blushes, trembles, falls, and dies. What is youth? a smiling sorrow, Blithe to-day, and sad to-morrow; Never fix'd, for ever ranging, Laughing, weeping, doating, changing; Wild, capricious, giddy, vain,
Coy'd with pleasure, nurs'd with pain: Age steals on with wintry face, Ev'ry rapt'rous hope to chase, Like a wither'd, sapless tree, Bow'd to chilling fate's decree; Stripp'd of all its foliage gay, Drooping at the close of day: What of tedious life remains Keen regrets and cureless pains; Till death appears, a welcome friend, To bid the scene of sorrow end.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue; Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims pay!
No sense have they of ills to come, No care beyond to-day.
Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate, And black misfortune's baleful train, Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To scize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men!
Happy the school-boy! did he prize his bliss, 'T were ill exchang'd for all the dazzling gems That gaily sparkle in ambition's eye; His are the joys of nature, his the smile, The cherub smile of innocence and health, Sorrow unknown, or if a tear be shed,
He wipes it soon: for hark! the cheerful voice Of comrades calls him to the top, or ball, Away he hies, and clamours as he goes, With glee, which causes him to tread on air.
Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise We love the play-place of our early days. The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. Cowper's Tirocinium.
The charms of youth at once are seen and past And nature says, "They are too sweet to last" So blooms the rose: and so the blushing maid Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade Sir William Jones
Ah, who, when fading of itself away, Would cloud the sunshine of his little day! Now is the May of life. Careering round! Joy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground Rogers's Human Life.
Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, | Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal sky,
Hope swells the sails, and passion steers his O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass.
Safe glides his little bark along the shore Where virtue takes her stand; but if too far He launches forth beyond discretion's mark, Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. Porteus's Death.
Of young ideas painted on the mind, In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads On objects not yet known, when all is new, And all is lovely.
A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded. Byron
The love of higher things and better days; The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways; The moments when we gather from a glance More joy than from all future pride or praise, Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance The heart in an existence of its own,
Hannah More's David and Goliah. Of which another's bosom is the zone.
I can remember, with unsteady feet, Tottering from room to room, and finding pleasure In flowers, and toys, and sweetmeats, things
In earlier days, and calmer hours, When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers,
Have lost their power to please; which when II had-ah! have I now?—a friend!
Scott's Rokeby. Oh Strangford! when we parted last, I little thought the times were past, For ever past, when brilliant joy, Was all my vacant heart's employ: When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, We thought the rapid hours too few, Our only use for knowledge then To turn to rapture all we knew! Delicious days of whim and soul, When mingling love and laugh together, We learn'd the book on pleasure's bowl, And turn'd the leaf with folly's feather!
Here while I roved, a heedless boy, Here, while through paths of peace I ran, My feet were vex'd with puny snares, My bosom stung with insect-cares: But ah! what light and little things Are childhood's woes!- they break no rest, Like dew-drops on the skylark's wings, While slumbering in his grassy nest, Gone in a moment, when he springs To meet the morn with open breast, As o'er the eastern hills her banners glow, And veil'd in mist the valley sleeps below. Montgomery's World before the Flood.
I thought of the days when to pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh When the saddest emotion my bosom had known, Was pity for those who were wiser than I!
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