There ne'er was harm in anything,
But it came by misgoverning:
For one word of evil guiding
May lose a kingdom or a king!
A sound truth this which all can feel
From the romance of Sir Greye Stele.
Ye rulers all who bear the bell,
Weigh it, I pray you, wisely, well.
In this world nothing is constant save inconstancy. Nature changes all things, night and morn, and when she puts on again her former semblance, still it is only a semblance, and never the very same. Young ladies—when your lovers vow to be true forever to love—you may believe them; but whether they will be eternally true to you, admits of reflection. Such at least seems to have been the life-philosophy of him who penned the following poem:
BY THE STREAM.
Oh water that ever art roving!
O fountain that never canst move!
Oh fancy—some new flame still loving!
O heart, ever constant to love!
The waterfall rustled and glistened,
Till it seemed like a musical flame,
And I lay and I looked and I listened
Till the nymph of the waterfall came.
It was no Undine or Lurley
(Though I thought her as beautiful still)
That came in the evening early—
But a bare-footed maid from the mill.
The pitcher too frequently laden
Must break and be lost at the worst,
But the young heart, when full of a maiden,
Of the twain will be broken the first.
But the pitcher, when cracked by a tumble,
Must be laid, till repaired, on the shelf,
While the heart, although shattered and humble,
Will be mended in time by itself.
And we vowed that we loved—but with laughter,
And we kissed with our feet in the brook;
She left me—my whistle rung after,
To win from the maid a last look.
And months have flown by since I missed her,
For afar with another she's flown;
And now I wait here for her sister,
To vow that I've loved her alone.
Oh water that ever art roaming!
Oh fountain that never canst move!
Oh fancy—some new flame still loving!
Oh heart ever constant to—love!
Sing it, reader, 'if thou canst sing.' A lady friend assures us that it goeth well unto voice and pianoforte.
YE JOLLIE POACHER.
'Twas I that kept a shoddy mill
In starving Lancashire;
And shaved the Yankees shamefully
For many and many a year.
The mill is stopped, I'm raving mad,
As from the Times you hear;
Oh it's my delight to bark and bite
At all times of the year.