The morning mist and evening haze- And blackberries--so mawkish now- And nuts-such reddening clusters ripe Nor strawberries blushing bright--as rich Since I was in my prime! CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. FORGET ME NOT. Go, youth beloved, in distant glades But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, Yet should the thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be, Nor ever deign to think on me; AMELIA OPIE. YOUTH AND AGE. VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a beeBoth were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young! When I was young?--Ah, woful When! Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in 't together. Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve, When we are old: -That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismist, Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. STANZAS. WHEN midnight o'er the moonless skies Her pall of transient death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, And naught is wakeful but the dead; No bloodless shape my way pursues, No sheeted ghost my couch annoys ; Visions more sad my fancy views, Visions of long-departed joys! The shade of youthful hope is there, That linger'd long, and latest died: Ambition all dissolved to air, With phantom honors by his side. What empty shadows glimmer nigh? Oh, die to thought, to memory die, WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. Oh still remember me! Oh then remember me! Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, When at eve thou rovest Oh then remember me! Once so loved by thee, Oh then remember me! When around thee dying Oh still remember me! Draw one tear from thee; THOMAS MOORE, THE CLOSING YEAR. 'TIS midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling,-'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirr'd As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks, - and breathe, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the Earth for ever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, | Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. The year Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and Course It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful,-- Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song It pass'd o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, Flash'd in the light of mid-day,—and the strength Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above sinks down To rest upon his mountain-crag,-but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow,-cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water,-fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns,-mountains rear To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain,-new empires rise, The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. THE fountains mingle with the river, With a sweet emotion; See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the moonbeams kiss the sea;- PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. OVER the mountains And over the waves; And under the graves; Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lye; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If love come he will enter, And soon find out his way. You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from his flight: But if she whom love doth honor Be conceal'd from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way. You may train the eagle The phoenix of the East; The lioness, ye may move her To give o'er her prey ; But you'll ne'er stop a lover, He will find out his way. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. A BRIDAL SONG. ROSES, their sharp spines being gone, Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry spring-time's harbinger, With her bells dim; Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Lark-heels trim. While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play; And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me— See! see the flowers that below Come, come, gather then the rose; GILES FLETCHER PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG. Not all the skill his wounds can stanch; ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And if I sleep, then percheth he |