Oh! were I by your bounty fed!— You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look, and see Your happy, happy orphan boy. WILLIAM SPENCER TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. Too late I stay'd, forgive the crime, How noiseless falls the foot of Time What eye with clear account remarks When all its sands are diamond sparks Ah! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. WHEN the black-lettered list to the gods was presented And slipped in three blessings-wife, children, and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends; For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children, and friends. If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, Though valour still glows in his life's dying embers, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How bless'd was his home with-wife, children, and friends. The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover, The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover The bower where he sat with-wife, children, and friends. The day-spring of youth still unclouded by sorrow, But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow No warmth from the smile of-wife, children, and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o'er the dead favourite bends; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, Bedewed with the tears of-wife, children, and friends. Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver, Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavour * BYRON. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. My hair is grey, but not with years; Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those Proud of Persecution's rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have seal'd; Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied: Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, And in each ring there is a chain ;- For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years-I cannot count them o'er; I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side. They chain'd us each to a column stone, |