And thus, as in memory’s bark, we shall glide To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Tho’ oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining through-- Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceiv’d for a moment, we’ll think them still ours, And breath the fresh air of life’s morning once more So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, Is all we can have of the few we hold dear; And oft even joy is unheeded and lost, For want of some heart that could echo it near. Ah! well may we hope, when this short life is gone, To meet in some world of more permanent bliss, For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast’ning on, Is all we enjoy of each other in this. But come--the more rare such delights to the heart, The more we should welcome, and bless them the more-- They’re ours when we meet--they’re lost when we part, Like birds that bring summer, and fly when ’tis o’er, Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, Let Sympathy pledge us, thro’ pleasure thro’ pain, That fast as a feeling but touches one link, Her magic shall send it direct through the chain. * * * * * LINES TO HIS COUSIN ON THE NEW YEAR, BY A WESTMINSTER BOY. Time rolls away! another year Has rolled off with him; hence ’tis clear His lordship keeps his carriage A single man, no doubt;--and thus Enjoys himself without the fuss And great expense of marriage. His wheel still rolls (and like the river Which Horace mentions) still for ever _Volvitur et volvetur_. In vain you _run against him_; place your fleetest filly in the race,-- Here’s ten to one he’ll beat her. Of all he sees, he takes a tithe, With that tremendous sweeping scythe, Which he keeps always going; While every step he takes, alas! Too plainly proves that _flesh is grass_, When he sets out a _mowing_. And though his hungry ravenous maw Is crammed with food, both dress’d and raw, I’ll wager any betting, His appetite has ever been Just like his scythe, sharp-set and keen, Which never wanted _whetting_. Could you but see the mighty treat Prepared, when he sits down to eat His breakfast or his dinner,--ah, Not vegetable--flesh,--alone, But timber, houses, iron, stone, He eats the very china. When maidens pray that he will spare Their teeth, complexion, or their hair, Alas! he’ll never hear ’em; Grey locks and wrinkles hourly show, What Ovid told us years ago, _Ut Tempus edax rerum!_