Days of my age! ye will shortly be past; Pains of my age! yet awhile ye can last; Joys of my age! in true wisdom delight; Eyes of my age! be religion your light; Thoughts of my age! dread ye not the cold sod; Hopes of my age! be ye fixed on your God! CURE FOR TROUBLE. BY S. OSBORNE. Ben Brisk a philosopher was, In the genuine sense of the word; And he held that repining, whatever the cause, Was unmanly, and weak, and absurd. Tom Tipple, when trouble intruded, And his fortune and credit were sunk, By a too common error deluded, Drown'd trouble, and made himself drunk. But Ben had a way of his own, When grievances made him uneasy; He bade the blue devils begone! Brav'd trouble, and made himself--_Busy_. When sorrow imbitters our days, And poisons each source of enjoyment, The surest specific, he says, For trouble and grief, is--_Employment_. LINES, Inscribed to William Willtshire, Esq. Heaven's noblest attribute! a richer gem Than ever deck'd the monarch's diadem, Art thou sweet mercy! yet alas, how rare, Amid this world of crime, thy triumphs are! How dimly burns thy pure etherial fire! How seldom does its warmth the clay wrapt heart inspire! Yet, now and then, upon the path of time, It blazes forth with dazzling ray sublime; Sheds o'er this vale of tears it's heaven lit flame; And throws a halo round the human name. See! on the desert's verge, those wasted forms, Which life's expiring spark but feebly warms; Wore down by pain, toil, care, and wretchedness, And clad in squalid misery's abject dress: And mark the hectic flush, the broken sigh, And the wild glance that lights each sunken eye-- The thrilling pulse of hope--the withering fear That checks the quick throb in its full career-- The eager, half form'd question, and the start, As if the accents shook the bursting heart-- "Oh! Heavens! and will he come, and shall we be Restor'd once more to life, and liberty? Or must we in our galling bonds remain?-- But hush!--hark!--Lo a horseman on the plain!" 'Tis he! he comes, he pities, succours, saves The captives from their chains, the dying from their graves. Thine, Willtshire, was the deed; and oh! to thee Is due the tribute of the brave and free!-- Noble, and generous! round thy brow shall twine A fairer wreath, a laurel more divine, Than that which e'er the blood stain'd hero wore: Or science' sons in proudest moment wore. And when the sculptur'd bust, the burnish'd urn, The victor's trophies shall to dust return: When gone are all that wealth and power bestow; Thy fame, undimm'd, shall shine--thy worth shall brighter glow. N. [_N. Y. Evening Post._ ON INTEMPERANCE. ----"But, at last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder."--Prov.