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!
'Tis the deep, cloudy midnight; and the wail
Of the cold wind is on its strings of fire,
And on the far hills, rising, dimly pale!
Ah! wake thy murmurs on the troubled gale-
Pour the sad requiem o'er the dying year-
Give to man's thoughtful eye a passing tale
Of days departed, bright as beauty's tear,
Or summer's festal sky, ere autumn clouds drew near!

From the dark sepulchre of years gone by,

A deeply mournful voice is murmuring,
"Where are the dreams of old !-the spirit high
Mounting like eagles on the fearless wing?

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-
Sweet flowers were on the earth's green bosom springing-
And streaming sunlight bless'd the sky of May,
Where early birds their joyous way were winging,
A dream of love to youth's fresh spirit bringing;
And all was gladness o'er the laughing earth :-
To the tall oak the sunny vine was clinging-
And sending echoes, e'en to home and hearth,

The sweet blue streams, set free, pour'd out a voice of mirth!

Then came the summer's prime-its long, bright day-
With garniture of wood, and field, and stream-

The golden sun outpour'd his gladdening ray,
And the blue sea danced in his boundless gleam;-
When like a soft, and faint-heard song, would seem
The cheerful murmur of the drowsy bee,

About the full grown flowers-and like a dream
Spread out for man's blest eye the scene might be,
While a soft, breezy chant, was in the green-wood tree!

Then frown'd the autumnal cloud; the shrouded sky
Its multitude of gleams and stars withdrew;

The flowers grew pale; and summer-brooks were high,
And imaged back no more a heaven of blue ;—
No moon smiled out upon the evening dew-
The squirrel's footstep rustled in the glen-
The red leaves fell, and fitful night-winds blew ;
And to the bright south-west, away from men,

Far, on their glancing plumes, roam'd the wild birds again!

But man is changing in the changing year-
Shadows o'ersweep the day-spring of the heart;
When gazing back upon Time's dim career,
He marks youth's cheerful images depart!
Then will lone Memory her tales impart
Of early buds, all ashes in the urn:-

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!
Genius and beauty gather'd to their rest-

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,
For thou art all too pure to linger here;
Life's joyous sands to thee have fleetly run,
And sorrow's hand hath made thy being sere-
Thy girlhood was a pure and artless dream,

And many a sunny hope has thrill'd thy breast,
And many an air-blown bubble gilt life's stream,
Flash'd for a moment-broke, and sunk to rest—-
Emblems of youth and loveliness were they,
And like hope's fairy visions pass'd away.

I would that thou wert dead, forsaken girl,
That high pale brow enshrined within the tomb,
For as with gentle winds still waters curl,

So fades at sorrow's touch young beauty's bloom-
Thou art too pure and fair for this cold earth,
A thing too guiltless long to dwell below,
Thy voice has lost its cadences of mirth,
The glory has departed from thy brow-

And youth's pure bloom has left thy virgin heart,
And beauty like a phantom will depart.

I would that thou wert dead, for life to thee
Is as a broken reed-a wither'd flower;
Dark shadows rest upon thy destiny,

And storms of fate around thy fortunes lower--
Wedded to one thy bosom cannot love,

Banish'd from him thine every thought employs,
Thou art in heart a bruised and wounded dove,
And earth to thee can yield no future joys,
Wearily passes life and time with thee,
A dusky shadow dims thy destiny.

I would that thou wert dead, devoted one,
And thy bright spirit disenthrall'd of clay;
Even as the dew-drop wastes beneath the sun,
Thus by disease thy being wastes away—
Oh, who that knew thee when thou wert a child,
With a glad voice and heaven unfolding eye,
A creature as the snow flake undefiled,
With a bright lip and cheek of rosy dye,

Oh, who that knew thee then, can see thee now,
Nor wonder for the beauty of thy brow.

I would that thou wert dead, and sanctified—
Thy spirit with high element is fraught,
And that which scorn and cruelty defied,

The lingering stealth of pale disease has wrought-
Yes, death is near thee now, sweet Genevieve,

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,
That glitters brightly through the calm blue skies,
Like white lids lifted from pure spirit's eyes.

Thou soon shalt die, sweet martyr, and the earth
Will nurture gentle flowers above thy grave,
Sweet emblems of thy being and thy birth,

With cypress leaves around thy tomb shall wave—
And when the pensive stranger wanders nigh,
His lips shall waft a tributary prayer,

For her who soon shall prematurely die,

For her whose seraph form shall moulder there-
Farewell, sweet Genevieve-'t is sad to part-
Farewell, thy beauty shrouds a breaking heart.

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.