The Moon in the west Now sinks to rest, And the night-bird withdraws to its ivied nest In yon antique tower, Which shows how the power And pride of man pass away in an hour; And the carol--hark! Of the early lark, Proclaims the Sun to the dell still dark. A yellow ray, As if from the spray Of the ocean, springs with the stars to play; But they shrink away, As afraid to stay, And leave the rude beam to disport as it may; And, one by one, They all have gone, And the sky is bright where they lately shone. The surges roar On the sounding shore, As if to awaken the mountain hoar; But the morning light Has just touched the height Of his topmost crag, and awaked his sight, And twitched away, In mirthful play, His dew-soaked nightcap of misty grey. See yon green wood That o'erhangs the flood Of that beautiful river; it seems as it would Fain stoop to greet The water sweet, Which coquettishly glides away, as fleet As a mountain fay, In fairy play, And to the great ocean runs away. Now the zenith is white With a doubtful light, That is dulled with the dregs of the recent night; But 'tis fast giving way To the saffron ray, That can only be seen at dawn of day; And this is pushed on By the golden one Which precedes the car of the glorious Sun. Now, the fearful pride Of the mountain's side, Rocks and chasms and cliffs one by one are descried; And the brightening light Descends the height, With majestic step, to the plain now bright; And the golden vest Which adorns the east, Sends its searching rays to the dark, sullen west. The carpet of gold O'er his path's now unrolled, And all Nature's expectant its king to behold-- And see! the first gem, The most brilliant of them That flash in the front of his diadem; And--majestic--slow, He uprises now, O'er rejoicing worlds, his radiant brow! OLD PROVERBS. "THERE'S LUCK IN LEISURE." "DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS." "James Scanlan wants to see you, sir. I told him you were hardly done dinner, but he begged me to let you know he is waiting." "Dear me," said my father, "what can he want? Show him in, Carey.--Well, James, what is the matter?" "Oh! your honour, sir, won't you come see my poor father? He'll speak to you, but we can't get a word from him. He's dying of grief, my mother is so bad." "Your mother, James!--what has happened her?"