MY DAUGHTER’S SCRAP-BOX.
It is now exactly sixteen years since the birth of my daughter. I had a large mahogany trunk made, with an orifice at top, large enough to receive a paper of moderate size; and resolved to solicit my friends for contributions in prose or verse, which were not to be read till her sixteenth birth-day. That time has now come. For several months past, I have endeavoured to recollect each individual who contributed to the store, for the purpose of inviting them to be present when it was opened. But sixteen years have made a great havoc in my list of friends; those whom that lapse of time has not removed altogether, it has, in many instances changed. But still I am grateful for those who are yet left. In some, I see the approach of old age, and wonder if they make the same remark upon me; in others, I can trace scarcely any diminution of health and spirits;— I fear few of them make a similar observation on the appearance of their host. I am not yet old; but a man with a daughter of sixteen, need make no great pretences to the character of being young.
When my guests were all assembled, there was, of course, no wani of conversation about the days of lang syne; and the approach of the birth-day was not looked forwar with any impatience, as it might be considered, in some sort, the signal of our separation. However, with whatever feeling its approach was regarded, it was hailed, when it actually arrived, with every symptom of satisfaction. The heroine of the day had exerted her taste, in fixing ona romantic spot for the scene of our fete champetre. She had selected a secluded dell, a short distance up the river, which meanders round my lawn, wherea thick clump of trees secured us a delightful shade, while the open lands, on each side, supplied us, through the leaves, with a refreshing breeze. Here then, we all assembled. The mystic box, to which, in other days, our respects had so frequently been paid, was carried to our tent, and occupied a conspicuous place during our entertainment. I thought I traced on some countenances a slight shade of anxiety, for, unless to professed authors, it is rather a trying event to have one’s compositions submitted to so numerous an assembly. There were, luckily, however, no critics amongst us, to mar our enjoyment, either by their downright objections, or their faint praise. Every thing which was read was listened to with the deepest attention, and an appearance of the most glowing admiration reigned on all our features,—particularly, I remarked, on those of the authors of the performance. The eatables having, at length, disappeared, and the wine, cooled by an hour’s immersion in the river, being set upon the table, we proceeded to the business of the day. The box was opened with the greatest solemnity, and a paper lifted up from the mass, without any selection, and laid before me for public perusal. I opened it, and read the title— Life, in four sonnets,’ —and immediately, before looking to the signature, I perceived, by a certain fidgettiness in my facetious friend, Tom Sanders, that he had some recollection who was the author of the performance. Tom is the clergyman of the next village to where I live, and a better fellow, “within the limits of becoming mirth,” it is impossible to meet with. It is strange, that during the whole of our long acquaintance, I never suspected him of ever attempting the art of rhyme; the utmost effort in the poetical department, for which I could have given him credit, would have been a rebus or a charade; my surprise, therefore, and that of all the auditors, may easily be imagined, when I read the following sentimental and me- lancholy effusion:—
I see (where glides the river on its way
‘Through the lone vale with leafy trees embower'd,
While all around an cdorous,
From the young flow’rs which deck
A little girl who carols at her play,
And weaves bright chaplets for her auburn hair,
In many a cluster fluttering on the air:
But soon she casts the chaplet far away,
To float adown the river! Ne’er thinks she
An emblem of herself those flow’rs are
Which bloom like pleasure, and like
Bright’ning, yet withering, upon life’s
Happy, alas! she looks through tearless eye,
And thinks nor flow’r will fade, nor pleasure die.
I look again. Yon child is woman now,
And still her eye retains the light it wore
In childhood; yet within its depths a store
Of nobler thoughts than childhood’s years allow
Is shining beautiful, yet half conceal’d;—
And Love bas placed his finger on her cheek;
Whose pale pure hue speaks more than words can speak,
Of hopes e’en to herself but half reveal’d;—
But see, she smiies, as if in waking dream,
And moves her ripe red lip: and as a name
She muttereth low, a flush (but not of shame)
Tinges her pale cheek with a rosy gleam!—
And she is happy! yet in sad like guise;
For Love may still be happy, though he sighs!
Again I see the child.—a child no more,
And youth himself hath waved his buoyant-wing,
Asif for ever from her brow to spring,
Where years have dimm’d the light which shone before.
Still gleams her eye; but, oh! how chang’d its gleam
Since first I saw it in that sunny hour,
a fresh with childhood’s hopes, she weav’d the flow’r;
Then cast it careless to the wand'ring stream!
And on that form Time’s finger hath been laid,
But notin anger; still she smiles to
The tale which minds her of the vanish’
When love and gladness round her bright
And long-lost dreams come back as once they
And death—chill’d Joy revives at Memory’s flame!—
Again! again, I look; and what is this?—
Art thou the child,—the woman once I view'd,
Who ling’ rest thus in sad, cold solitude?
Oh! what a fall! Where now is all thy bliss?
Thy children, where be they? All gone,—and thou
Left sad and lone to mourn, yet scarce to weep,
The wild wind which did strip thee in its sweep,
And left thee leafless as a winter’s bough?
Thine eyes, how dim! Thy form no more bedeck’d
With grace, with beauty,—years have swept o’er thee
As doth the wild sirocco o'er the sea,
And left thee, mid its vastness, torn and wreck’d;—
Yet smiles will visit thee,-—as roses wave
Their flexile sweetness e’en above the grave!
The reading of these verses was received with an applause to which I will not venture to deny that our friendship towards the author added great part of the sincerity. Another dip was made into the store-house of the Muses, and a
thin slip of paper, with no name or designation