Oh, waste not now in vain regret, The precious hours vouchsafed thee here. The star of hope thy spirit cheer. [Written on seeing the Monthly Rose in luxuriant bloom in November.] When erst along these paths I strayed, But now no blooms,-no foliage green, Fading when brightest it appears. But still beside my path a rose Of the chill breeze,-uprears its head, Like Faith, when joys of earth are past,. A little while, this rose shall fade: Oh, let us make that Rose our own, Amid the world's wide-spreading waste! THE FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOW. WHY round the mast of anchored bark, Or stately tree of sunny park, Assembles now the swallow's train ? Why then, ye winged ones, prepare J. A. W. Delay your flight a little while; Full well they feel a wintry night A dauntless band, they cleave the sky, O Christian, shall they spread their wing, And soar aloft in airy ring, Nor shame within thy bosom raise ? Soon, soon, however bright thy sky, Torquay. J. A. W. |