Who’d wish to travel life’s dull round,
Unmove’d by pain or pleasure?
’Tis reason’s task to set the bound,
And keep them both in measure.
The stoic, who with false pretence
Each soft emotion stifles,
Thinks want of feeling proves his sense, :
Yet frets and fumes at trifles;
And he who vainly boasts the heart
Touch’d by each tale of woe,
Forbears to act the friendly part,
That tender heart to shew.
Th’ unfeeling heart can never know,
By cold indifference guarded,
The joy, the transport, which will flow
From love and truth rewarded.
True sensibility we find
Shares in another’s grief,
And pity yields the generous mind
From sympathy relief.
Yet there are ills the feeling heart
Can never, never bear
Unable to support the smart,
’Tis driven to despair.
The point discuss’d, we find this rule,
A rule both true and sad,———
Who feels too little is a fool,
Who feels too much is mad.
Sigma Tau.
LINES
on the portrait of mrs. duff
Stranger, or friend, in this faint sketch behold
An angel’s figure in a mortal mould!
In human beauty though the form excell’d,
Each feature yielded to the mind it held.
Heav'n claim’d the spark of its ethereal flame,
And earth return’d it spotless BS it came.
So die the good, the beauteous, and the kind.
And, dying, leave a lesson to mankind.
C. J.
LINES
Consign’d to dust though on fair sister lies,
The sainted object of our tears and sighs!
Though Duffno more in living charms be here,
In sprightly Heathcote still those charms appear.
Three Sister-Graces[1] decorate the scene,
And each discovers all that Duff has been.
Thus Nature lends, in spite of Death’s decrees,
Surviving worth, to comfort and to please.
C. J.
ELEGIAC STANZAS,
Written after the Battle of Corunna,
Inscribed to the Memory of the late Lieut-General Sir John Moore
When wearied soldiers sink to sleep,
How sweetly soft their slumbers be,
And sweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die.
Saw you the hero’s hapless bed?
No marble decks his bleeding breast;
’Tis there I wish to lay my head,
And with this martyr sleep at rest.
No tears embalm his precious tomb.
Save the soft dews by twilight given;
No sighs disturb the silent gloom,
But in the whisp'ring winds of heav'n.
And shall we thus our Moore dismiss,
Who for his country bravely bled?
And tell to ages nought but
That "He is number’d with the dead!”
No! let the sculptur’d marble tell,
The patient toils, and battles won,
That he in freedom’s conflict fell,
When England lost a fav'rite son!
Sudbury. J. H. R.
- ↑ Duchess of St. Alban’s, Lady Heathcote, and Mrs. Dalrymple
