STANZAS.

When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could dance and sing no more;
It then occurred how sad 'twould be

Were this world only made for me!

PRINCESS AMELIA.

STANZAS.

HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;"
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,—
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

LONGFELLOW.

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THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.

LIFE.

HIS Life, which seems so fair,

Is like a bubble blown up in the air

By sporting children's breath,

Who chase it everywhere,

And strive who can most motion it bequeath.

And though it sometimes seem of its own might

Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there,
And firm to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so light.
-But in that pomp it doth not long appear,
For when 'tis most admiréd, in a thought,
Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.

W. DRUMMOND,

THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.

HEN the lamp is shattered,
The light in the dust lies dead;
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed;

When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remembered not;

When the lips have spoken,

Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour

Survive not the lamp and the lute,

THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.

The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute,-
No song, but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruined cell,

Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,

Love first leaves the well-built nest ;

The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possessed.

O Love! who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home, and your bier ?

Its passions will rock thee,

As the storms rock the ravens on high;

Bright reason will mock thee,

Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter

Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee naked to laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

SHELLEY.

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THE LAST TEAR.

AN ELEGY.

H, snatched away in beauty's bloom!
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year,

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.

And oft by yon blue, gushing stream,

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,

And feed deep thought with many a dream,

And lingering pause, and lightly tread ;-
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,—

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress;
Will this unteach us to complain,

Or make one mourner weep the less?

And thou, who tell'st me to forget,

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

BYRON.

W

THE LAST TEAR.

ITHOUT a friend to cheer his drooping heart,
OUT

An aged pilgrim in his death-sleep lay.

His feet had traversed far, in lonely march,

The crooked pathways of this desert world : For those who, in the spring-time of his days, Had hand in hand with him their course begun.

THE LAST TEAR.

Long since had fallen; and, all desolate,

Had left him mourning to pursue his way.

In dreamy mood he, on his lonely couch,

Lay pondering; when, touched by some mute spell,
The fountain of his heart, long sealed and dry,

Broke forth anew, and gave its latest tear.

Was it a tear of joy or came it forth
In melancholy sadness, from the depths
Of memory's caverns in the inner soul;
Wherein are gathered stores of pleasures past,
Of long-lost happiness, and joy serene,
Mingling their brightness with the mists of years,
Like twilight radiance fading into gloom?
Was it, that, as the soul was verging fast
To the dark portals of the world unknown,
It turned to other years its inward glance,
And wept to think their joys were past recall ?
Or came that tear in happiness—a tear
Of heavenly promise, glistening with the light
Of joy Elysian?

Looked the soul onward to its home of rest,
Where streams of gladness flow unceasingly,
With holy murmur, by the throne of God?
Dreamt it of happy meetings in the skies

With those from whom nought but the hand of death
Could e'er have parted it—with those loved ones
Whose voice on earth was music soft and sweet,

And now, in heaven, is music sweeter still?

These doubts are hushed, for low and solemn sounds

Came from the lips of him who lay entranced.

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