Oh, yes! man, while stemming the storm TO IANTHE IN HEAVEN. BY E. A. POE. THOU wast that all to me, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreathed around about with flowersAnd the flowers, they all were mine. But the dream, it could not last; A voice from out the Future cries, "Onward!"-while o'er the Past, (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies, Mute, motionless, aghast! For, alas! alas! with me, Ambition, all, is o'er; "No more, no more, no more" (Such language holds the solemn sea And all my hours are trances, By what eternal streams. THE BREEZES FAN MY BROW. BY JAMES F. OTIS. THE breezes fan my brow, And softly round me play ; They're pathless and unchainedWould I were free as they! The waters at my feet Go murmuring along Oh, would my life could glide In such untroubled song! And o'er my aching head My vanished joys denote; Far on yon mountain-top There is a wreath of snow; And on its breast the sun Pours forth his crimson glow; But all in vain his rays With torrid lustre dart So fall the pleasures of this world A WEARY TIME IS OURS, MY LOVE. BY ROBERT M. CHARLTON. A WEARY time is ours, my love, For lost to us are pleasure's smiles, And withered are its flowers: The ray that cheered our youthful hearts Hath vanished from our sight, And hope's refulgent, beaming day Hath faded into night. How joyous, in our early youth, And what hath called to manhood's eye Will answer, joy is but a spell Well, let it pass: a few more suns Will change again the scene, And we shall pass from earth's vile dross, To purer" ray serene :" Awhile, our feeble, weary steps O'er life's dull path may roam, But "every night we pitch our tents HE WHO DECAYS IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. BY THOMAS I. CHARLTON. HE who decays in youthful prime, Not like the rose of autumn, chill, Thus may it be my lot to part And telling vows, forsooth, That in the breast have never dwelt, Beyond our happy youth. |