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The dying sun-the dying sun!—
How sink his languid rays to rest,
When twilight throws her shroud upon
The pale and melancholy west;
The rose that bloom'd in early May,
Droops now on its deserted stem;--
O'er its sere leaves and blighted spray
Pours the night-wind its requiem!

The birds, which sung, in summer's light,
And danced on bright and purple wing,
Wake not the tuneless ear of night,—
Hush'd is their blithesome carolling!
Their rest is where their song hath been-
They sleep upon each fading flower
Ah! sorrow's eye can show no scene
More welcome than pale twilight's hour!

The dying sun-the dying sun!--
Oh, sorrow loves its failing light-
It breathes a kindred glow upon

The breast, wrapt in the gloom of night-
Pale sorrow loves the wither'd spray-

The flowers o'er which the blight hath past;--
These speak of raptures past away,-

Of cherish'd joys too bright to last!

What though the wild-bird's loved retreat
Gives back no more their warblings dear;-
The strain of gladness is not meet
For sorrow's lone and tuneless ear!—
Better to list the breeze of night
O'er each sere leaf and dying flower;-
Ah! earth can show no sadder sight
Than meets the eye at twilight hour!


GIVE not to me the wreath of green-
The blooming vase of flowers ;--

They breathe of joy that once hath been ;

Of gone and faded hours!

I cannot love the rose, though rich—

Its beauty will not last;—

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Give me, give me the bloom, o'er which
The early blight hath pass'd;

The yellow buds-give them to rest,
On my cold brow and joyless breast,
Where life is failing fast!

Take far from me the wine-cup bright,
In hours of revelry ;

It suits glad brows, and bosoms light—
It is not meet for me;

Oh, I can pledge the heart no more
I pledged in days gone by;

Sorrow hath touch'd my bosom's core,
And I am left to die;

Give me to drink of Lethe's wave-
Give me the lone and silent grave,
O'er which the night-winds sigh!

Wake not, upon my tuneless ear
Soft music's stealing strain;
It cannot soothe-it cannot cheer
My anguish'd heart again:

But place the Æolian harp upon
The tomb of her, I love ;-

There, when heaven shrouds the dying sun,

My weary steps will rove,

As o'er its chords night pours its breath,

To list the serenade of death,

Her silent bourne above!

Give me to seek the lonely tomb,

Where sleeps the sainted dead,

Now the pale nightfall throws its gloom

Above the narrow bed;

There, while the winds which sweep along,

O'er the harp-strings are driven,

And the funereal soul of song

Upon the air is given;

Oh let my faint and parting breath

Be mingled with that song of death,
And flee with it to heaven!


Oh! for my bright and faded hours
When life was like a summer stream,

On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam;
Or danced upon the breeze that bare
Its store of rich perfume along,
While the wood-robin pour'd on air
The ravishing delights of song.

The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,
While flow'd its sparkling waters fair-
And went upon his path-way proud,
And threw a brighter lustre there;
And smiled upon the golden heaven,
And on the earth's sweet loveliness,
Where light, and joy, and song were given,
The glad and fairy scene to bless!

Ah! these were bright and joyous hours,
When youth awoke from boyhood's dream,
To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers,
While young hope bask'd in morning's beam!
And proffer'd thanks to heaven above,
While glow'd his fond and grateful breast,
Who spread for him that scene of love
And made him so supremely blest!

That scene of love!-where hath it gone?
Where have its charms and beauty sped?
My hours of youth, that o'er me shone-
Where have their light and splendor fled?
Into the silent lapse of years-
And I am left on earth to mourn:
And I am left! to drop my tears
O'er memory's lone and icy urn!

Yet why pour forth the voice of wail
O'er feeling's blighted coronal?
Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,
I shall be gather'd in my pall;

Oh, my dark hours on earth are few

My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven ;—

And I shall soon bid life adieu,

To seek enduring joys in heaven!


MRS BROOKS is a native of Medford, Massachusetts, and a descendant of an ancient Welch family, of the name of Gowen, not unknown in the history of Wales. She now resides in the Island of Cuba, and is engaged in the continuation of a poetical work, the first canto of which was published in Boston, in 1825.

Her education was zealously prosecuted, without great advantages, at an early period of life. Ambitious of excellence in all the accomplishments desired by females of aspiring minds, she has obtained, by self-instruction, a very good acquaintance with ancient literature, and a perfect knowledge of the refined modern languages, together with exquisite skill in music and painting. Constant and severe discipline has given her a power and versatility of thought, which promises for her future life a harvest of renown. She paid frequent visits to the Castalian fount, in early youth, and the inspiration gained there, if at first uncertain and feeble, has been steadily increasing, till it has risen to a vigor, that surprises us in one of "the most delicate of women."

"Judith and Esther," with a collection of fugitive pieces, consisting of her childish productions, was her first publication. It contains, of course, much imperfection; many things, that mature minds cannot dwell upon with increasing satisfaction; but it also evinces a delicate and lively fancy, a dawn of that intellectual brightness, which has been realized in the subsequent publication of the first canto of Zophiel, and which she is now engaged in completing. In this poem, a new style and a fresh power, is manifested. The study of many languages, a residence where the Spanish is almost exclusively spoken, a fervent contemplation of the old masters of the English lyre, and a struggle to shake off the feebleness, attached, by common consent, and confirmed by submissive habit, to the minds of women, all conspired to give an unusual energy to the efforts of her muse.

Zophiel is the production of a vigorous imagination, and a warm fancy, in the stately manner of the old English verse. It is often harsh, and frequently obscure, on account of the numerous elisions and inversions but is also replete with rich and just thought, that well repays the study necessary for its comprehension. From the extreme softness which characterized her early fugitive pieces, Mrs Brooks suddenly, and unfortunately for her popularity, seems to have run into a style in the opposite extreme; but when more experience has corrected her judgment, it is not extravagant to expect from her pen, poetry of the highest and purest kind.

The subject of Zophiel was unfortunately chosen, for while it was in progress in the Island of Cuba, Moore and Byron preoccupied the field, by the story of the Loves of the Angels; a more difficult and dangerous task is therefore, imposed upon the fair author, in attempting to complete the work in competition with these master spirits.

After an examination of the first canto, and learning that it did not succeed in this, the native country of the writer, Mr Southey wrote her a letter requesting that the subsequent cantos might be published in England and offering to superintend their introduction to the public. We hope she will not be obliged to accept this foreign hospitality through the indifference or neglect of her countrymen.


SEPHORA held her to her heart, the while
Grief had its way-then saw her gently laid,
And bade her, kissing her blue eyes, beguile,
Slumbering, the fervid noon. Her leafy bed

Sigh'd forth o'erpowering breath, increased the heat;
Sleepless had been the night; her weary sense
Could now no more. Lone in the still retreat,
Wounding the flowers to sweetness more intense,

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