T Its phantoms shone, for him to chase, in giddy round, but now; Perchance the glee of his young heart-the glancing of his eye Hath been upon another shore, beneath a brighter sky: The night-tones have no tales to tell-no history to unfoldThe tall, sere grass, that waves alone, in sadness o'er his mould These speak not-deep in dreamless rest, the peaceful sleeper lies; There is no pang to rend his heart,—no grief to dim his eyes! Perchance, in halcyon hours of Youth, a transient dream of love Came to his brain while earth was joy, and heaven was light above; When his soul was fill'd with gladsome thought—and in idolatry He bow'd him to that holy shrine, which in our youth we see ; A star above life's troubled scene-a gleam upon its wave— A ray, whose light is soon eclipsed, in the darkness of the grave; A song, which like the mirthful tone of wild birds on the wing, Dies when the dewy even-tide enshrouds a sky of spring! I know but this-Death's shadows dwell upon his deep-seal'd eye; Vainly earth laughs in joy for him, or the blue summer-skyThe gales may tell where flowers repose, or where the young buds swell; Their soft chant may not enter here, within this voiceless cell Flowers, dreams, and grief, alike are past-and why should man reply, When life is but a wilderness whose promise soon may die"T is but a home, where all must sleep-change, which to all must come A curtain, which o'er ALL must spread its deep, o'ershadowing gloom! The wail of the expiring year is in the deep brown woods The leaf is borne upon the stream, in its dark solitudes :The clouds are on the chasten'd hills-the floods are wild and high The mournful pall is lingering, where faded blossoms lie:Then here should monitory thoughts be treasured in the breast That life is but a changeful hour-and Death, a holy rest, Where grief's loud wail or bursting tears ne'er to its stillness come; But silence reigns within its hall, wrapp' in its shrouded home! EXTRACT FROM A NEW YEAR ADDRESS. COME to my soul, thou Spirit of the Lyre! From the dark sepulchre of years gone by, A deeply mournful voice is murmuring, Where is the pride of that luxuriant spring, Which pour'd its light on Rome-on Babylon? -The wreaths of Time around their temples cling Their halls are dust!-the gold of Chaldee won Where sails the bittern's wing, when the bright day is done! Even thus with the past year;-its morn was gay- The sweet blue streams, set free, pour'd out a voice of mirth! Then came the summer's prime-its long, bright day- The golden sun outpour'd his gladdening ray, About the full grown flowers-and like a dream Then frown'd the autumnal cloud; the shrouded sky The flowers grew pale; and summer-brooks were high, Far, on their glancing plumes, roam'd the wild birds again! But man is changing in the changing year- Mournful and sweet her reveries!-but we start And from lost years unto the present turn Closing from mind's deep cell, the voiceless thoughts that burn! How many dreams have to the dust gone down— Witness thou fading and departed year! Since last thy spring enwreathed her flowery crown,— Lo! gentle forms have lain upon the bier, Where thoughtful sorrow pour'd the pensive tear! Death, in all climes, is on his way of fear His arrow trembles in Youth's budding breastOh! were his power decay'd, how might Earth's love be bless'd! ROBERT MORRIS, A NATIVE of Philadelphia. He is the editor of the PhilaCelphia Album. THE BROKEN HEARTED. I WOULD that thou wert dead, devoted one, And many a sunny hope has thrill'd thy breast, I would that thou wert dead, forsaken girl, So fades at sorrow's touch young beauty's bloom- And youth's pure bloom has left thy virgin heart, I would that thou wert dead, for life to thee And storms of fate around thy fortunes lower-- Banish'd from him thine every thought employs, I would that thou wert dead, devoted one, Oh, who that knew thee then, can see thee now, I would that thou wert dead, and sanctified— The lingering stealth of pale disease has wrought- And thou shalt haste to meet him with a smile; It is in vain thy gentle sisters grieve, Thy soul shall soon flee by each starry isle, Thou soon shalt die, sweet martyr, and the earth With cypress leaves around thy tomb shall wave— For her who soon shall prematurely die, For her whose seraph form shall moulder there- EBENEZER BAILEY, Is a native of Newbury in Massachusetts, and was graduated at Yale College in 1817. He is now Principal of the Young Ladies' High School in Boston. His prize ode, recited at the Boston Theatre in 1825, is the only performance by which he is known to the public as a poet. He has, however, produced a great number of poetical effusions of high merit, which have obtained anonymously a wide circulation in our various repositories of fugitive verse. If Mr Bailey had written with a view to distinction, he might at this moment have been one of the most popular and esteemed poets of our country. The Triumphs of Liberty is a chaste and spirited production, superior to anything of the kind which our national anniversaries have called forth. His lighter pieces are thrown off with an ease and playfulness of fancy that we do not often see equalled in the hasty rhymes of a leisure moment. |