Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease:
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the Patriot's boast where'er we roam;
His first, best country. ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by Art or Nature given
To different nations, makes their blessings even.

GOLDSMITH.

SH

127. GINEVRA.

[From ITALY.]

HE was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found:
Nor from that hour could anything be guess'd,
But that she was not!-Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Her father lived; and long might'st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find. he knew not what.

When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place!"
'Twas done as soon as said! but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden-clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perish'd-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,

“Ginevra.”—There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever!

ROGERS.

128. INSTABILITY OF AFFECTION.

ALAS!-how light a cause may love

Dissension between hearts that love!

Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;

That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heav'n was all tranquillity!
A something light as air—a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken—
Oh! love that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone;
And hearts so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds-or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods that part for ever.

T. MOORE.

129. DEATH.

[From THE GRAVE.]

HOW shocking must thy summons be, O Death,

To him that is at ease in his possessions;
Who counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,

Oh, might she stay, to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horror: but the foe,
Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.

Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul!
What a strange moment must it be, when, near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view-
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd,
To tell what's doing on the other side!

If death were nothing, and nought after death; If, when men die, at once they ceased to be, Returning to the barren womb of nothing,

Whence first they sprung; then might the debauchee Untrembling mouth the heavens: then might the drunkard

Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drain'd,
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh

At the poor bugbear Death: then might the wretch
That's weary of the world, and tired of life,
At once give each inquietude the slip,

By stealing out of being when he pleased,
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel,
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force
The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time,
Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well,
That helps himself as timely as he can,
When able. But if there's an hereafter;
(And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced,
And suffer'd to speak out, tells ev'ry man;)
Then must it be an awful thing to die.

BLAIR.

130. LIGHT FOR ALL.

γου

cannot pay with

money

The million sons of toil

The sailor on the ocean,
The peasant on the soil,
The labourer in the quarry,
The hewer of the coal;
Your money pays the hand,
But it cannot pay the soul.

You gaze on the cathedral,

Whose turrets meet the sky;
Remember the foundations

That in earth and darkness lie: