And soon, too soon, the wint'ry hour
Of man's maturer age,

Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,
And stormy passion's rage!

Oh Thou, whose infant feet were found
Within thy Father's shrine!

Whose years, with changeless virtue crown'd,
Were all alike divine,

Dependant on thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,

In childhood, manhood, age and death,
To keep us still thine own!

LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE.

Ir thou wert by my side, my love!
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam,
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind, approving eye,
Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,
On broad Hindoostan's sultry meads,
O'er black Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor mild Malwah detain,
For sweet the bliss us both awaits,
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sea,

But never were hearts so light and gay,
As then shall meet in thee!

THE MOONLIGHT MARCH.

I SEE them on their winding way,
About their ranks the moonbeam's play;
Their lofty deeds and daring high
Blend with the notes of victory.
And waving arms, and banners bright,
Are glancing in the mellow light:

They're lost and gone, the moon is past,
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast;
And fainter, fainter, fainter still
The march is rising o'er the hill.

Again, again, the pealing drum,

The clashing horn-they come, they come,
Through rocky pass, o'er wooded steep,
In long and glittering files they sweep.

And nearer, nearer, yet more near,
Their soften'd chorus meets the ear;
Forth, forth, and meet them on their way-
The trampling hoofs brook no delay;
With thrilling fife, and pealing drum,
And clashing horn-they come, they come.

"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,
As it steals by, upon the bordering brook ;

That winding streamlet, limping, lingering, slow,
Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow;
Where in the midst, upon her throne of green,
Sits the large lily as the water's queen;
And makes the current, forced a while to stay,
Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;

Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream,
And our broad river will before thee seem.

With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide,
Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide;
Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep
It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep;

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
Nor angler we on our wide stream descry, [snows;
But one poor dredger where his oysters lie:
He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide,
Beats his weak arms against his tarry side,
Then drains the remnant of diluted gin,
To aid the warmth that languishes within;
Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat
His tingling fingers into gathering heat.

He shall again be seen when evening comes,
And social parties crowd their favourite rooms:
Where on the table pipes and papers lie,

The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by ;
'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around,
They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound;
And few themselves the savoury boon deny,
The food that feeds, the living luxury.

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;
Hark! to the clamour in that miry road,
Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessel's load;
The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,
Package and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case:
While the loud seamen and the angry hind,
Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.

Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,
Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks:
See! the long keel, which soon the waves must hide;
See! the strong ribs which form the roomy side;
Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,
And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.
Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far
Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.

Dabbling on shore half-naked seaboys crowd,
Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;
Or in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play,
And grow familiar with the watery way:

Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are,
They know what British seamen do and dare;
Proud of that fame, they rise and they enjoy
The rustic wonder of the village boy.

Before you bid these busy scenes adieu,
Behold the wealth that lies in public view,