LIFE'S LITTLE LINES.

"Noting, ere they fade away,

The little lines of yesterday."

LIFE'S "little lines; " how short, how faint,
How fast they fade away;
Its highest hopes, its brightest joys,
Are compassed, in a day.

Youth's bright, and mild, and morning light,

Its sunshine, and its showers,

Its hopes and fears, its loves and tears,

Its heedless, happy hours;

And manhood's high and brightened noon,

Its honours, dangers, cares,

The parents' pains, the parents' joys,

The parents' anxious prayers;

Fade in old age's evening gray,

The twilight of the mind;

Then sink, in death's long, dreamless night,

And leave no trace, behind.

Yet, though so changing, and so brief,

Our life's eventful page,

It has its charms, for every grief,
Its joys, for every age.

In youth's, in manhood's, golden hours,
Loves, friendships, strew the way
With April's earliest, sweetest flowers,
And all the bloom of May;
And when old age, with wintry hand,
Has frosted o'er, the head,

Virtue's fair fruits, survive the blast,
When all beside, are fled;

And faith, with pure, unwavering eye,
Can pierce the gathered gloom;
And smile upon the spoiler's rage,
And live, beyond the tomb.

Be ours, then, virtue's deathless charm,

And faith's untiring flight;

Then shall we rise, from death's dark sleep, To worlds of cloudless light.

TO A VERY DEAR FRIEND.*

-Friendship, I owe thee much."

DARK to the soul, and desolate,
Life's sunniest hours would be,
And cheerless, fortune's best estate,
Fair Friendship! but for thee.
And oh when tempests wrap the skies,
How comfortless, their gloom,
Did not thy radiant visions rise,
Our darkness to illume!

Friend of my heart! in hours of joy,
I've listened to thy voice;
And felt, in each inspiring tone,

New motive, to rejoice;

And oft, with anxious cares oppressed,

And griefs, thou didst not know,
Thy kindness has relieved my breast,
And lightened every woe.

Oh! I have loved, with thee to rove,
In Spring's reviving hour,
Ere verdure yet, had clad the grove,
Or fragrance filled the flower;

* The venerable Rector of Trinity Church, New York.

And joyed, when Summer found us laid,
Beneath some aged oak,

Where, save the streamlet's bubbling tale,
No sound, the stillness broke.

With thee, when Autumn's mellowing hand
Has tinged the woods with gold,
How dear, to mark each varied tint

Successively unfold!

And e'en in Winter's sullen hour,

To roam, delighted, on,

And feel, that not in Summer bower,

Is nature wooed, alone.

Those happy hours, those happy hours,
Have flitted on the wind;

But many a dear remembrance lives,

Deep in my heart, entwined;

And oft, the chords with which they're bound,

Shall fancy wake again;

And memory love to linger long,

Delighted, on that strain.

THERMOPYLE.

Σᾶς περὶ, παρθένε, μορφας

Καὶ θανεῖν ζαλωτὸς ἐν Ἑλλάδι πότμος.

"TWAS an hour of fearful issues,

When the bold three hundred stood, For their love of holy freedom,

By that old Thessalian flood;

When, lifting high each sword of flame,
They called on every sacred name,
And swore, beside those dashing waves,
They never, never, would be slaves!

And Oh! that oath was nobly kept:
From morn, to setting sun,

Did desperation urge the fight,
Which valour had begun;

Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood
Ran down, and mingled with the flood,
And all, from mountain-cliff, to wave,
Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave.

Oh, yes, that oath was nobly kept,
Which nobly, had been sworn;
And proudly, did each gallant heart
The foeman's fetters spurn;

And firmly, was the fight maintained,
And amply, was the triumph gained;
They fought, fair Liberty, for Thee ;
They fell; to die is to be free.

FRAGMENT.

'Twas night-and winds were raving round,
With stern December's surly sound;
The well-swept hearth was burning bright,
And shed on all its cheering light;

The doors were closed, the curtains drawn,
The floor-cloth smooth as verdant lawn,
And all was joy, and sportive mirth,
Around the dear domestic hearth.

Domestic love! what holier shrine,
Save One, is reared on earth, than thine?
Where, as when clustered round thy feet,
Does heart meet heart, in concord sweet?
Star of our souls where'er we roam,
We turn to thee, delightful home!

'Twas night-the feather-footed hours
Had fled, as if they "stepped on flowers;
Had noiseless fled, yet left behind
In happy hearts, mementos kind
Of hours, in social converse spent,
When every look is eloquent

Of moments passed, with those we love,
Prized by the heart, long years, above:
Moments, which shall for ever be,
Embalmed in fondest memory.

The jest, the laugh had circled round,
Mingled with music's silver sound;
That wild and witching melody

Which moves, at once, and melts the soul,
And bids, from out the unconscious eye,

The involuntary tear-drop roll.
Such notes as oft, at midnight hour,
The sad enthusiast, ravish'd, hears;
Far echo of some angel's song,

Sweet harmony of circling spheres.
Those notes, those notes, they linger yet,
Oh! who that heard them, could forget!
Speech shall be lost, and thought, as soon
As that sweet voice, and "Bonny Doon."

HOME.

“The music of Carrol was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant, but mournful to the soul."-Ossian.

HOME of my careless infancy,

How dear, each well-remembered scene,

Where every rock, and every tree,

Is eloquent, of what has been.

How dear, yet ah! how painful too;
That joy, how near to grief, allied,
When thoughts of loved ones, now no more,
Come rushing on me, like a tide.

Departed joys, of days gone by,

As slowly on, your visions roll,
My heart is softened, and subdued ;
Ye soothe, and tranquillize my soul.