Go, idle lays!
Tell her whose youthful heart beats high
To future days
That now so fair in prospect lie,
How soon our dearest transports die.
Tell her whose cheek
The blush of conscious pleasure wears,
That they who seek
To find delights unmix'd with cares
Shall own the fond deceit in tears.
Say that while charms
Which Hebe's transient presence lends
The bosom warms,
Time's envious breath the canker sends
That youth's enchanting season ends.
To her whom health
With ruddy blushes high illumes,
Say that by stealth
Disease to pallid wrinkles dooms,
The cheek that now so sweetly blooms.
Tell her whose form
The partial hand of Beauty gave,
That from the worm
Kind Pity's touch shall never save
The charms that moulder in the grave!
Go, idle lays!
Tell her whose youthful heart beats high
To future days
That now so fair in prospect lie,
How soon our dearest transports die!
Then softly say
That, when terrestrial joys and pains
Shall melt away,
The soul, absolv'd from sensual stains,
Shall soar where bliss immortal re'gns!
_Port Folio._
* * * * *
Mrs. Morris, the lady of major Morris, who lately descended in the
diving-bell, at Plymouth, whilst under water, wrote a long letter to
her father, which concluded with the following lines:--
From a _belle_, my dear father you've oft had a line.
But not from a _bell_ under water;
Just now I can only assure you I am thine--
Your _diving_ affectionate daughter.