O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish Bedew'd with the tears of Wife, Children and Friends. 4 Let us drink,-for my song growing graver and graver To subjects too solemn insensibly tends, The glass that I fill to Wife, Children and And if, in the hope this fair island to plunder The tyrant of France to invade us pretends, How his legions will shrink when our arm'd freemen thunder The war-cry of Britons, WIFE, CHILDREN and FRIENDS! XXVII. LOVE AT FIFTY. BY MR. DIBDIN. 1 WHEN I told you your cheeks wore the blush of the rose, That the spring was the type of your youth, That no lily a tint like your neck could disclose, I made love in the language of truth: Yet the loveliest rose, once the summer away, Of its bloom leaves no vestige behind; But your bloom, when the summer of life shall decay, Fresh as ever shall glow in your mind. 2 See the Bee, as from flower to flower he roves, The sweets of the garden explore, And in winter to feast on the banquet he loves, So all your employment thro' life's busy day, From that source of perfection, your mind. 3 And thus, as the seasons of life pass away, The spring all expanding, the summer all gay, You are yet in your summer; but when on your head, While from all admiration you find, Silver winter its honours shall sacredly shed, Still summer shall bloom in your mind. XXVIII. THE SONG OF SEVENTY. BY J. B. 1 I TOLD You, Mary, told you true, 2 O, Mary, on thy lovely neck, The diamond shone with sweeten'd glance, And graceful was the silken robe, That mark'd thy motions in the dance, And joyous were the pompous croud, Thy birth entitled thee to join ; Thou lovely did'st my suit approve, 3 'Tis long now, Mary, since we met, While accents cheerful grac'd your tongue, 4 How often, Mary, has my heart With secret rapture beat thy praise, While on your breast our infants hung, I mark'd their mother's tender gaze, 4 For tho' thou gladly would'st fulfil Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 5 My Mary! But well thou play'd'st the huswife's part, And all thy threads with curious art, Have wound themselves about this heart, 6 Thy indistinct expressions seem My Mary! Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 7 My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Than golden beams of orient light, 8 My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? -The sun would rise in vain for me, 9 Partakers of thy sad decline, My Mary! Thy hands their little force resign; My Mary! F f |