IX.

Perhaps in long, long after times,
When glancing o'er these simple rhymes,
I then may find

The hours which now neglected fly
Had friends as dear and joys as nigh
As those for whom I now do sigh

With pensive mind.

No 5.

ADDITIONAL LINES.

Written twenty years after.

I.

How many dear ones, since the day
I've penned these lines, have passed away
In twenty years;

And thus 'twill be till all are gone,
Like weary travellers journeying on
Through desert places, one by one,

And disappears:

And he who writes this simple rhyme,
He too shall in a little time

Be with the past,

Like some one on a foreign shore,

With all his treasure sent before,

Is waiting to be ferried o'er

The gulf at last.

No. 6.

TO A TEAR.

I.

BRIGHT tear, that sparklest like a dewdrop shrined
Within the petals of an opening flower,
Sweet gem of pity from a sorrowing mind,
Oh! who can tell thy all-absorbing power,
The secret sympathy by which you bind

The young, the gay, the thoughtless many an hour,
And shed a magic twilight o'er the soul,
Pure, undefinable, without control.

II.

All lovely things are loveliest when the heart
Is touched with tenderness, and the deep springs,
Of their affections from their channels start,

And flood the soul with sympathy: these things, Bright as yon heaven, of which they form a part, Light up the mazes of imaginings,

And scintillating rays flash through our tears
That latent lay, unseen, unknown for years.

III.

'Tis in the darkness that the diamond's ray Shines out the brightest; and the stars are hid

On this side heaven all the livelong day,
But when mild evening opes her dewy lid,

They come out one by one, the milky way,
And Orion and the Pleiades shine amid
A million of radiant worlds in yon blue sky,
Like pearly tears that hang in Beauty's eye.

IV.

There is a sanctity in tears, a spell,

A power which lies only in helplessness: They are the poetry of grief, which tell

Of the wrecked heart and wounded soul's distress, When joy and hope sigh out a long farewell; And in that dark and dreary wretchedness

They come, like moonbeams through a mossy shrine, Lighting the ruin still with light divine!

No. 7.

PROLOGUE.

Written on New-Year's Night and spoken at the Young
Men's Society Rooms before the introduction of Private
Theatricals.

WHEN prostrate Nature cold and pulseless lies,
And tempests sweep along the sullen skies,
Old Christmas comes with measured step and slow,
Crowned with the icicle and robed with snow,
Proclaiming far and near in hut and hall

The time of mirth and solemn festival,

And calls the wanderers back, where'er they roam, To meet again the dear old friends at home,

And all obey who can ;-but there are some
Whom Fate denies the privilege to come;
Yet even these a small indulgence find:
Distance nor exile cannot chain the mind,
Which with a fond fidelity flies back,
O'er busy Memory's dark or shining track,
To distant scenes, which, like a dream of bliss,
Enraps the soul in such an hour as this!
Now at this time, when pleasure, far and wide,
Shakes perfumed blossoms down on every side,
When joy and gaiety light up each heart,
We, tyros of the stage, will bear a part
In the amusements introduced to-night,
To add, if possible, to your delight,

To raise the merry laugh, well pleased if we
Can place one rosebud on the Christmas-tree!

No. 8.

THE IDIOT BOY TO HIS WIDOWED MOTHER.

I.

WEEP not, weep not, mother, now;

There's grief upon thy brow

That once was fair, and beautiful, and bright;

But now, dear mother, all the living light,
That beauty which I lov'd to gaze upon

Is gone, for ever gone!

No smile now sparkles there,

But pallid grief and care,

And tears thou wouldst conceal I still can trace

Ever on that dear face.

Oh! once thou couldst smile on me,

And take me on thy knee,

And call me thy poor idiot boy,

Thine, and my father's joy!

What ailest thee, mother? Am I now less dear To thee than when poor father last was here ?——— Don't cry; he told thee, ere he went asleep, Don't you remember, not to fret or weep,

And yet thou didst not stop, but wept the more, Faster and faster than thou didst before:

Yet, ever since the day

The strange men came and carried him away
Thou art so sadly changed,

From all, even from me estranged,

Thine own poor idiot child!

Oh! thou hast too often smiled

On me, dear mother, ever more

To frown;-look as you did before,

Sweet, calm, benignant, beautiful, and mild,
Like our dear Mother Mary with the Child.
Thou wilt not ;-oh! that I could take

All thy grief away, though my heart should break;
I'd bear it all, poor mother, for thy sake!
They say my head is weak;-but, oh! my heart,
I'm sure, is right, since it can take a part
In suffering and in sorrow, and can feel
Another's woe;-but never could conceal