This Life Is All Checkered With Pleasures And Woes

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep,-- Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed. The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup--if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet;--while Idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

OH THE SHAMROCK.

Thro' Erin's Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valor wandered, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squandered. Where'er they pass, A triple grass Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming. As softly green As emeralds seen Thro' purest crystal gleaming. Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf. Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valor, "See, "They spring for me, "Those leafy gems of morning!"-- Says Love, "No, no, "For me they grow, "My fragrant path adorning." But Wit perceives The triple leaves, And cries, "Oh! do not sever "A type, that blends "Three godlike friends, "Love, Valor, Wit, for ever!" Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

So firmly fond May last the bond, They wove that morn together, And ne'er may fall One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather. May Love, as twine His flowers divine. Of thorny falsehood weed 'em; May Valor ne'er His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom! Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that species of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand.