His musings were trite, and their burthen, forsooth,
The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.

Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there;
Rosy day dons the garb of a Penitent Fair;
The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid,
Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.

And Echo was mute to the patriarch's tread,--
"How tranquil is Nature!" that patriarch said;
He onward advances, where boughs overshade
A lonelier spot, and the barley is laid.

He gazes around, not a creature is there,
No sound upon earth, and no voice in the air;
But fading there lies a poor bloom that he knows,
Neglected, unheeded--a beautiful Rose.

CIRCUMSTANCE
THE ORANGE

It ripen'd by the river banks,
Where, musk and moonlight aiding,
Dons Whiskerandos play sad pranks,
Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish maiden it was pluck'd,
Who broke some hearts, they say, then,
By Saxon sweetheart it was suck'd,--
Who threw the peel away then.

How little thought the London Fair,
Or dark-eyed Girl of Seville,
That _I_ should reel upon that peel,
And find my proper level!

A WISH

To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew,
A pair of child-lovers I've seen,
More than once were they there, and the years of the two,
When added, might number thirteen.

* * * * *

They sat on the grave which had never a stone
The name of the dead to determine,
It was Life paying Death a brief visit--alone
A notable text for a sermon.

They tenderly prattled,--what was it they said?
The turf on that hillock was new:
O! kenn'd ye, poor little ones, aught of the dead,
Or could he be heedful of you?

I wish to believe, and believe it I must,
That a father beneath them was laid:
I wish to believe,--I will take it on trust,
That father knew all that they said.

My Own, you are five, very nearly the age
Of that poor little fatherless child;
And some day a true-love your heart will engage
When on earth I my last may have smil'd.

Then visit my grave, like a good little lass,
Where'er it may happen to be,
And if any daisies should peer through the grass,
Be sure they are kisses from me.

And place not a stone to distinguish my name,
For strangers and gossips to see,
B