FUGITIVE POETRY.

IN examining some of the periodical publications of America, several Songs and short poetical Pieces were discovered, which appeared to merit insertion in the present Collection. In addition to these will be found a few Poems extracted from different volumes, from which it was not thought necessary to make larger selections.

SCENES OF MY YOUTH.

[From the American Monthly Magazine.]

How chang'd are the scenes of my youth!
How widow'd each prospect appears!
How fraught with instruction and truth,
As view'd through my fast falling tears.

I pause, as I pass through the glade,

On each object which once gave me joy, But weep on the spot where I play'd,

When a light-hearted, gay, thoughtless boy.

No prospect now bursts on my sight,
But has magic to call forth my tears;
I mourn for each youthful delight

That's lost in the current of

years.

The oak, whose rude branches sublime,
Long brav'd the assaults of the blast,
Now leafless and shatter'd by time,

Sighs mournful for years that are past.

The brook, though it still warbles low,
As it rolls through its deep winding bed,
Awakens the anguish of wo,

For it murmurs a dirge to the dead.

On its banks where the clear waters meet, The youth of the village once play'd;

But now in that rural retreat

The sires of the hamlet are laid.

And children that danc'd on the heath, 'Till evening withdrew its last gleam,

Are dull in the cold arms of death,

And sleep by the slow winding stream.

And there, when the tumult shall cease,
That kindles despair in my breast,
May I sleep the sweet sleep of peace,
And wake to the joys of the blest!

SATURDAY NIGHT.

[From the American Monthly Magazine.]

SWEET to the soul the parting ray,
Which ushers placid evening in,
When with the still expiring day,
The Sabbath's peaceful hours begin;-
How grateful to the anxious breast,
The sacred hours of holy rest!

I love the blush of vernal bloom,
When morning gilds night's sullen tear;
And dear to me the mournful gloom
Of autumn, Sabbath of the year;
But purer pleasures, joys sublime,
Await the dawn of Holy Time.

Hush'd is the tumult of the day,

And worldly cares, and bus'ness cease, While soft the vesper breezes play, To hymn the glad return of peace; O season blest! O moments given To turn the vagrant thoughts to Heaven!

What though involv'd in lurid night,
The loveliest forms of nature fade;
Yet mid the gloom shall heavenly light,
With joy the contrite heart pervade ;-

O then, great source of light divine,
With beams etherial, gladden mine.

Oft as this hallow'd hour shall come,

O raise my thoughts from earthly things;
And bear them to my heavenly home,
On living faith's immortal wings,—

"Till the last gleam of life decay
In one eternal SABBATH DAY!

HOME.

[From the American Monthly Magazine.]

WHAT, tho' banish'd from home, o'er the world I may

rove,

Still that home I have left is the first in my love;
There's no sorrow so great as its absence to mourn,
No joy that's so bright as the hope of return.
At home are the friends of my earliest years,

That form'd my first hopes, and sooth'd my first fears;
That taught my young bosom the pleasures of love,
And directed its thoughts to the heaven above.
Tho' much I may love other friends I have seen;
Tho' the hills I now tread may be sunny and green;
Still the hills of my childhood are brightest and best,
And the friends of my home are the first in my breast: