THE HOUR OF PRIME.
Mira d’intorno, Silvio,
Quanto il mondo ha di vago, e di gentile,
Opra e d’amore: ***
*** Amante e il cielo, Amante
La terra, Amante il mare.
Al fine, Ama ogni cosa.
Pastor Fido.
Ask why the violet perfume throws
O’er all the ambient air;
Ask why so sweet the summer rose,
Ask why the lily’s fair.
If these, in words, could answer frame,
Or characters could trace,
They’d say, the frolic zephyrs came
And courted our embrace.
And we (unskill’d in that false lore
That teaches how to feign,
While days and years fly swiftly o’er,
And ne’er return again,)
A prompt obedience ready paid
To Nature’s kind command,
And meeting Zephyr in the glade,
We took his proffer’d hand.
And loving thus, we led along
In jocund mirth the hours;
The bee bestow’d her ceaseless song,
The clouds refreshing show’rs.
From out the Iris’ radiant bow
In gayest hues we drest,
And all our joy is, that we know
We have been truly blest.
Believe not in the sombre lay
Of one[432] who lov’d grief’s theme,
That “have been blest” is “title gay”
“Of misery’s extreme.”
Discard so woe-begone a muse
In melancholy drown’d,
And list’ a mightier bard[433] who strews
His laughing truths around.
“The rose distill’d is happier far
Than that which, with’ring on the thorn,
Lives, grows, and dies a prey to care
In single blessedness forlorn.”
Mark then the lesson, O ye fair!
The pretty flow’rets teach,
The truths they tell more precious are
Than coquetry can reach.
Or all cold prudence e’er design’d
To cloud affection’s beams,
To cross with doubts the youthful mind,
Or cheat it with fond dreams.
Leave then at once all fond delay,
Nor lose the hour of prime,
For nought can call back yesterda
Nor stop the hand of time.
And youth and beauty both have wings,
No art can make them stay,
While wisdom soft, but ceaseless sings,
“Enjoy them while you may.”
E. E.
[432] Dr. Young.
[433] Shakspeare.
For the Table Book.
THE SOLDIER’S RETURN.
A Fragment.
The sound of trumpet, drum and fife
Are fit for younger men,
He seeks the calm retreat of life,
His Mary and his glen.
——Many days and nights the wounded soldier travelled with his knapsack and stick to reach his native place, and find solace in the bosom of his relatives. The season merged into the solstice of winter, the roads were bad, his feet were tender, and his means were scanty. Few persons in years could have borne the fatigue and hardships he endured; but if he could find his wished-for Mary, he trusted all would be well—his spirit could not break while the hope of his earliest attachment survived. He had fought hard in the conflict of the battle-field—the conflict of love had not smoothed his “wrinkled front.” He trudged onward, and persevered till he reached the cottage of his nativity. It was humble but neat. He drew the latch, crossed the threshhold, and entered the domicile. An elderly female was lying on a bed. Her niece sat by the bedside reading to her. The maiden rose, and, putting the book aside, questioned his name and business. He threw down his knapsack; he caught the countenance, though faded from its youth, like his, of his dear, bedridden Mary, and, clasping his hands with hers, sat many hours reciting his history, and listening in tears to her afflictions, occasioned by his roving disposition. He now, to make reparation, seasoned her hopes by promises of final rest with her till their suns should set together in the sphere of earthly repose; for Mary was the only person living of all his once numerous companions in the Glen—
———.