No more I wept my brother's lot,-,
His image was almost forgot;
And every deeper shade of pain
Had vanished from my soul again.
The well known morn, I used to greet
With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming,
And thoughts of home and raptures sweet
In every eye but mine were gleaming;
But I, amidst that youthful band
Of bounding hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command,
Nor felt those wonted extasies!
I loved my home, but trembled now
To view my father's altered brow;
I feared to meet my mother's eye,
And hear her voice of agony;
I feared to view my native spot,
Where he who loved it-now was not.
The pleasures of my home were fled ;-
My brother slumbered with the dead.
I drew near to my father's gate ;—
No smiling faces met me now.
I entered, all was desolate.
Grief sat upon my mother's brow ;-
I heard her, as she kissed me, sigh;
A tear stood in my father's eye;
My little brothers round me pressed,
In gay unthinking childhood blest.
Long, long, that hour has passed, but when Shall I forget its gloomy scene!
I sought my brother's burial place—
That shrine, which when I last had viewed
In vigour by my side he stood.
I gazed around with fearful eye :—
All things reposed in sanctity.
I reached the chancel,-nought was changed :The altar decently arranged,—
white cloth above the shrine,
The consecrated bread and wine,—
All was the same.-I found no trace
Of sorrow in that holy place.
One hurried glance I downward gave,—
My foot was on my brother's grave!
And years have passed-and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;—
And cheerful is my mother's brow,-
My father's eye has lost its gloom,—
And years have passed and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;
With thee he roams, an infant shade,
But not more pure than thee he died.
Blest are ye both! Your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best;
And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel-spirits wander o'er!
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality!
My boyish days are nearly gone,—
My breast is not unsullied now;
And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow,—
And life will take a darker hue
From ills my brother never knew ;
And I have made me bosom friends,
And loved and linked my heart with others;
But who with mine his spirit blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's!
When years of rapture glided by
The spring of life's unclouded weather,
Our souls were knit, and thou and I,
My brother, grew in love together. The chain is broke that bound us then ;When shall I find its like again!
ON THE RECEIPT OF A LETTER.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE.
THROUGH many a year the Merchant views,
With steady eye, his distant gains;
Right on, his object he pursues,
And what he seeks, in time, obtains:
So he some distant prospect sees,
Who gazes on a Patron's smiles,
And if he finds it hard to please,
That pleasant view his cares beguiles.
Not such my fate-what years disclose,
And piece-meal on such minds bestow,
The lively joys, the grievous woes!
Shall this tremendous instant show:-
Concentred hopes and fears I feel,
As on the verge of fate I stand,
In sight of Fortune's rapid wheel,
And with the ticket in my hand.
No intermediate good can rise,
And feeble compensation make ;
"Tis one dread blank, or one rich prize;
And life's grand hope is now at stake!
Where all is lost, or all is won,
That can distress, that can delight;
Oh! how will rise Tomorrow's Sun
On him who draws his fate To-night!
Literary Gazette.
SWEET bud, that by and by shall be a flower;
Young star, that just hath broken on our eye;
Pure spring, ere long to grow a stream of power;
First dawn of Hope, that soon shall flame out high
Into the mid arch of the golden sky;
I love, young fawn, to see thee sport; and yet
Such contemplation breeds but vain regret.
Let the proud mother smile to see thy ways,
And once again forget herself in thee;—
Let the proud father eke the mother's praise,
But, graver, place thee fondly on his knee,
And vainly prophecy what thou shalt be-
Pleased with the tongueless eloquence, that lies
Still silent, in thy clear blue laughing eyes.
Let them enjoy-whilst yet they can enjoy ;
And, infant son of Time, do thou smile on,
Deem not for aye to be the favourite boy;
Take what thou can'st, or ere thy time is gone,
For still the darling is the youngest son;
And thou shalt quickly sorrow sore to see
Another, younger still, supplanting thee.
Though many a high presage be cast upon thee,-
Though many a mouth be diligent to praise thee,—
Though Beauty pine until that she hath won thee,-
Though worship, wheresoe'er thou goest, delays thee,—
Though Fate and Fortune emulate to raise thee,—
Yet all the thronging honours that surround thee
Shall not avail thee, since that Care hath found thee.
Time's train is lacqueyed still by weariness;
What boots the crownlet of o'er-flattered gold,
Or gemmed Tiara, if they cannot bless
Or soothe the aching brows that they enfold?
What boots it to wax honourably old,
If 'tis the end of every hope and vow,
To yearn to be again as thou art now?
Oh! 'tis a thriftless bargain of a life,
To live to know that bliss is but pretence-
That, gaining nothing in this earthly strife,
We only toil to forfeit innocence !-
The profit nothing, but remorse the expense!
Or that fond grief, that wearies of its state,
And pines for toys and gauds worn out of date.
Thou art an old pretender, grey-beard Age;
Thou boastest much, and yet art but a cheat;
And those who toil upon thy pilgrimage,
Would turn again with no unwilling feet :-
Yea, dewy clouds to evening are most meet.
If smiles be Youth's, sure tears are Age's sign,
As suns that rise in smiles, in tears decline.
Blackwood's Magazine.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
FAREWELL! my bridal couch, farewell!
The hope of love, of life is done;
Since all that twined its holy spell,
And made it happiness, is gone.
And is it woman's wounded pride
That spreads this fever on my cheek?
No, 'tis that love should thus be tried ;-
No, 'tis that hearts so slow should break.
This blow was deep, was death,-I prove
The bitter worth of constancy;
How man will sport with stedfast love,
How woman yield, obey, and die.
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