And soon, too soon, the wint'ry hour Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, Oh Thou, whose infant feet were found Whose years, with changeless virtue crown'd, Dependant on thy bounteous breath, In childhood, manhood, age and death, LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE. Ir thou wert by my side, my love! If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gayly would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But never were hearts so light and gay, THE MOONLIGHT MARCH. I SEE them on their winding way, They're lost and gone, the moon is past, Again, again, the pealing drum, The clashing horn-they come, they come, And nearer, nearer, yet more near, "DESCRIBE the Borough"-though our idle tribe May love description, can we so describe, That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace, And all that gives distinction to a place? This cannot be; yet, moved by your request, A part I paint-let fancy form the rest. Cities and towns, the various haunts of men, Require the pencil-they defy the pen: Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet So well have sung of alley, lane, or street? Can measured lines these various buildings show, The Town-hall Turning, or the Prospect Row? Can I the seats of wealth and want explore, And lengthen out my lays from door to door! Then let thy fancy aid me: I repair, From this tall mansion of our last-year's mayor, Till we the outskirts of the borough reach, And these half-buried buildings next the beach; Where hang at open doors the net and cork, While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work; Till comes the hour, when, fishing through the tide, The weary husband throws his freight aside; A living mass, which now demands the wife, Th' alternate labours of their humble life. Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood, Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood? Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look, That winding streamlet, limping, lingering, slow, Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream, With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide, Here sampire banks and saltwort bound the flood, There stakes and seaweeds withering on the mud; And higher up, a ridge of all things base, Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place. Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat, Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat; While at her stern an angler takes his stand, And marks the fish he purposes to land; From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray Of the warm sun, the scaly people play. Far other craft our prouder river shows, Hoys, pinks, and sloops; brigs, brigantines, and He shall again be seen when evening comes, The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by ; Yon is our quay! those smaller hoys from town, Its various wares, for country use, bring down; Those laden wagons, in return, impart The country produce to the city mart; Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks, Dabbling on shore half-naked seaboys crowd, Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are, Before you bid these busy scenes adieu, |