W. G. CROSBY,

A NATIVE of Belfast, Maine, is the author of Poetical Illustrations of the Atheneum Gallery, besides various other performances in verse.

TO A LADY, WITH A WITHERED LEAF.

WHAT offering can the minstrel bring,
To cast upon affection's shrine?
"T was hard thy magic spell to fling
O'er the fond heart already thine!

Thou wouldst not prize the glittering gem,
Thou wouldst but cast the pearl away;
For thine is now a diadem,

Of lustre brighter far than they.

I will not bring the spring-tide flower,
Reposing on its gentle leaf;

Its memory lives but for an hour

I would not thine should be as brief.

My heart!--but that has long been thine-
"T were but a worthless offering;

The ruin of a rifled shrine,

A flower that fast is withering.

My song!-'t is but a mournful strain,
So deep in sorrow's mantle clad,

E'en echo will not wake again

The music of a strain so sad.

A wither'd leaf!-nay, scorn it not,
Nor deem it all unworthy thee;
It grew upon a hallow'd spot,
And sacred is its memory.

I pluck'd it from a lonely bough,

That hung above my mother's grave,
And felt, e'en then, that none but thou
Could'st prize the gift affection gave.

She faded with the flowers of spring,
That o'er her lifeless form were cast,-
And when I pluck'd this faded thing,

"T was shivering in the autumn blast.

"T was the last one!-all-all were gone,
They bloom'd not where the yew trees wave;
This leaf and I were left alone,

Pale watchers o'er my mother's grave.

I mark'd it, when full oft I sought
That spot so dear to memory;
I loved it for I fondly thought,

It linger'd there to mourn with me!

I've moisten'd it with many a tear,
I've hallow'd it with many a prayer:
And while this bursting heart was clear
From guilt's dark stain, I shrined it there.

Now, lady, now the gift is thine!

Oh, guard it with a vestal's care;
Make but thine angel heart its shrine,
And I will kneel and worship there!

ASA M. BOLLES,

A NATIVE of Ashford, in Connecticut, was graduated at Brown University in 1823.

THE ALBUM.

IN that proud temple of the Sun,

Which rose to heaven on Balbec's towers,

Amid the altars, there was one,

Whose only offerings were flowers;

When morning o'er the glittering dome
Was blushing from her eastern home,

Fresh garlands to that shrine were given
Of flowers-bright flowers bathed in heaven.
And Persian girls, with deep blue eyes
Of love, and clustering raven hair,
And brows as pure as their own skies,
Were gather'd with their rose-wreaths there,
To breathe their orisons and twine
Their garlands on that lovely shrine,
Whose incense, at the day-god's flame,
Rose to the skies, from whence it came.

Beautiful there those bright ones knelt,
Where Morn's first holy light was flowing
Pure from its crystal throne-they felt

The day-spring in their bosom's glowing
With life and joy-as through the aisles
Their god came beaming all in smiles
And love-oh! who could wish to part
From that sweet worship of the heart!
The Persian's fane has perished-gone
The shrine-the worship of the free
All-all have faded like the tone

Of music o'er the moonlit sea-
No laughing eyes—no raven hair—
No dewy wreaths are sparkling there-
Faded is every peerless gem,

And beauty has gone down like them.

But love will have its altars still,
And there is yet a worship born,
Of hearts, that feel the joyous thrill
Of light and beauty in their morn;
Hope's deep-toned music lingers there
Amid the roses and the air.

Breathes incense all--while from above
Bliss sparkles o'er the shrine of love.
Such be this volume-let no trace

Of sadness blight one leaflet here-
The heart's pure offerings to grace

And loveliness should have no tear
Amid their blossoms-but the dews
Of heaven should mingle with their hues;
And all things fair and brighest twine
Their wreaths of gladness o'er the shrine.

HENRY J. FINN,

A NATIVE of Virginia, and for some years past a resident of this city. He is well known to the public as an actor of rare talent. He was formerly one of the Managers of the Federal Street Theatre. A dramatic piece entitled The Falls of Montmorenci, written by him, was represented and published in 1825. He is also the author of a comedy, with the title of The Phrenologist, which has been performed, but not published

THE TRIBUTE OF TRUTH.

THE golden meshes of gay delight
That beckon the senses but to beguile
Have flash'd their mad and meteor light
On the soul, enslaved by the witching wile.

And passion has heated the heart of one,
Who deem'd him blest in its burning beam
As the simple fly, in the summer's sun,
Floats on the ray, through its daily dream.

But the charm is gone-and the chain is cleft-
That menaced to bind my fancy ever;
Yet the link inlaid with gems, is left,
Which love has cemented ne'er to sever.

Farewell! for the rainbow tints are fled

From the wings of pleasure. But much more sweet
And pure, is the lovelier light that's shed
From thy look of life, when our glances meet.

And memory smiles at the distant sea,
Where the waters roll o'er the wreck of pride;
For the calms of summer have come with thee,
My boon, my blessing-and my bride!

THE FUNERAL AT SEA.

DEEP mists hung over the Mariner's grave
When the holy funeral rite was read;
And every breath on the dark blue wave
Seem'd hush'd, to hallow the friendless dead.

And heavily heaved on the gloomy sea,
The ship that shelter'd that homeless one-
As though, his funeral-hour should be,

When the waves were still, and the winds were gone.

And there he lay, in his coarse, cold shroud—
And strangers were round the coffinless:
Not a kinsman was seen among that crowd,
Not an eye to weep, nor a lip to bless.

No sound from the church's passing-bell
Was echoed along the pathless deep,
The hearts that were far away, to tell
Where the Mariner lies, in his lasting sleep.

Not a whisper then linger'd upon the air-
O'er his body, one moment, his messmates bent;
But the plunging sound of the dead was there—
And the ocean is now his monument !

But many a sigh, and many a tear,

Shall be breathed, and shed, in the hours to comeWhen the widow and fatherless shall hear

How he died, far, far from his happy home!