SADNESS AND MIRTH.
Nay, these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind,
As it has lower'd of late, so keenly cast,
Unsuited seem, and strange.
Oh! nothing strange!
Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud,
In the sunn'd glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
O, gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
And may be so to-morrow!
Joanna Baillie.
Ye met at the stately feasts of old,
Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold,
Sadness and Mirth!—ye were mingled there
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air;
