A THOUGHT.

THE rose which in the sun's bright rays
Might soon have drooped and perished,
With grateful scent the shower repays
By which its life is cherished.

And thus have e'en the young in years
Found flowers within that flourish;
And yield a fragrance, fed by tears,
That sunshine could not nourish!

VERSES,

SUGGESTED BY A VERY CURIOUS OLD ROOM AT THE TANKARD,

IPSWICH.

SUCH were the rooms in which of

yore

Our ancestors were wont to dwell;
And still of fashions known no more
Even these lingering relics tell.

The oaken wainscot, richly graced
With gay festoons of mimic flowers;
Armorial bearings, half effaced,

All speak of proud and long-past hours.

The ceiling, quaintly carved and groined,
With pendent pediments reversed,

A by-gone age recalls to mind,

Whose glories song hath oft rehearsed.

VERSES, &c

And true, though trite, the moral taught,
Well worthy of the poet's rhyme,
By all that can impress on thought

The changes made by chance and time.

These tell " a plain, unvarnished tale”
Of wealth's decline, and pride's decay,
Nor less unto the mind unveil

Those things which cannot pass away!

And truths which no attention wake
When poets sing, or parsons teach,
Perchance may some impression make,
When thus a public-house may preach!

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SCOTTISH SCENERY;

AND SOME OF ITS ASSOCIATIONS.

THE Highland hills are bleak and bare,

Yet bracing is their mountain air

To Scotia's hardy child:

Nor would he, for the crops of grain
Reared on the richest southern plain,
Exchange that region wild.

Well may its native's heart expand
With filial love to such a land,

And own the varied thralls

Of mountains towering to the sky,

Of vales as lovely to the eye,

Of lakes, and water-falls!

SCOTTISH SCENERY.

In hearts which own the strong appeal
Of scenes like these, and justly feel

Their influence and their worth,

Such objects to no transient ties,
No frail and fleeting sympathies,
Must evermore give birth.

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'Land of brown heath and shaggy wood!

Land of the mountain and the flood!"

As thy own Bard hath sung,

"What shall untie the filial band

Which knits unto thy rugged strand "
Thy children-old or young?

To them thy hills are fortress-towers;
Thy glens are Beauty's fairest bowers;
Thy lakes and flowing streams,
In storm or calm, in sun or shade,
Have each a spell that asks no aid

From poet's fondest dreams.

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