CXXVIII

LIFE'S PROGRESS

How gaily is at first begun

Our Life's uncertain race! Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, With which we just set out to run, Enlightens all the place.

How soft the first ideas prove,

Which wander through our minds! How full the joys, how free the love, Which does that early season move, As flow'rs the western winds!

Our sighs are then but vernal air,
But April-drops our tears,
Which swiftly passing, all grows fair,
Whilst beauty compensates our care,
And youth each vapour clears.

But oh! too soon, alas, we climb,

Scarce feeling we ascend, The gently rising hill of Time,

From whence with grief we see that prime,

And all its sweetness end.

The die now cast, our station known,
Fond expectation past;

The thorns, which former days had sown,
To crops of late repentance grown,

Thro' which we toil at last.

Whilst ev'ry care's a driving harm,

That helps to bear us down;
Which faded smiles no more can charm,
But ev'ry tear's a winter storm,

And ev'ry look's a frown.

Till with succeeding ills opprest,
For joys we hop'd to find;
By age too, rumpl'd and undrest,
We, gladly sinking down to rest,

Leave following crowds behind.

ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA.

CXXIX

A SIMILE

By this flow'ry meadow walking,
To this prattling echo talking,
As along the stream I pass,
Gazing on my floating face;
Lo! the ruffling winds arise,

To snatch the prospect from my eyes ;
The mimic form their fury braves,
And proudly triumphs o'er the waves;
Yet, tho' with ev'ry wave 'tis tost,
The reflection is not lost.
Virtue wages such a strife,
In this turbulent stream of life;
Rack'd with passions, tost with fears,
Vex'd with jealousies and cares:
But a good unspotted soul,

Tho' subject, yet knows no control
Whilst it turns on Virtue's pole.

But lo! the clouds obscure the sun,
Swift shadows o'er the waters run!
Trembling too, my shadow flies,
And by its very likeness dies.

W. PATTISON.

CXXX

LIVE TO-DAY

SHALL man from Nature's sanction stray,
With blind Opinion for his guide,

And, rebel to her rightful sway,
Leave all her bounties unenjoy'd?

Fool! Time no change of motion knows ;
With equal speed the torrent flows

To sweep fame, power, and wealth away :
The past is all by death possest;

And frugal Fate that guards the rest,
By giving, bids him live to-day.

E. FENTON.

CXXXI

THE TOPER

CONTENTED I am, and contented I'll be,
For what can this world more afford,
Than a lass who will sociably sit on my knee,
And a cellar as sociably stored,

My brave boys?

My vault door is open, descend and improve;
That cask,-ay, that we will try ;

'Tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love,
And as bright as her cheeks to the eye,
My brave boys.

In a piece of slit hoop, see my candle is stuck,
'Twill light us each bottle to hand;

The foot of my glass for the purpose I broke,
As I hate that a bumper should stand,
My brave boys.

Astride on a butt, as a butt should be strod,

I gallop the brusher along;

Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow's god,
And a sentiment give, or a song,

My brave boys.

We are dry where we sit, though the oozing drops seem With pearls the moist walls to emboss;

From the arch mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream, Like stucco-work cut out of moss,

My brave boys.

When the lamp is brimful, how the taper flame shines,
Which, when moisture is wanting, decays;

Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines,
Or else there's an end of my blaze,

My brave boys.