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 glenThe 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 Ione 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 breast-
Oh! 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 Philadelphia 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,

EBENEZER BAILEY.

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,

now Principal of the His prize ode, recited

Is a native of Newbury in Massachusetts, and was graduated at Yale College in 1817. He is Young Ladies' High School in Boston. 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.

THE TRIUMPHS OF LIBERTY.

vale,

SPIRIT of freedom, hail !—
Whether thy steps are in the sunny
Where peace and happiness reside
With innocence and thee, or glide
To caverns deep and vestal fountains,
'Mid the stern solitude of mountains,
Where airy voices still prolong

From cliff to cliff thy jocund song,-
We woo thy presence: Thou wilt smile upon
The full heart's tribute to thy favorite Son,
Who held communion with thee, and unfurl'd
In light thy sacred charter to the world.

We feel thy influence, Power divine, Whose angel smile can make the desert shine; For thou hast left thy mountain's brow, And art with men no stranger now. Where'er thy joyous train is seen Disporting with the merry hours,

Nature laughs out, in brighter green,
And wreathes her brow with fairy flowers:
Pleasure waves her rosy wand,-
Plenty opens wide her hand,-
Ŏn Rapture's wings,

To heaven the choral anthem springs,—
And all around, above, below,

Exult and mingle, as they glow,

In such harmonious ecstacies as play'd,

When earth was new, in Eden's light and shade.

But not in peaceful scenes alone

Thy steps appear, thy power is known.
Hark! the trump!-its thrilling sound
Echoes on every wind,

And man awakes, for ages bound

In leaden lethargy of mind:

He wakes to life-earth's teeming plains

Rejoice in his control;

He wakes to strength!—and bursts the chains
Whose rust was in his soul;
He wakes to liberty!-and walks abroad
All disenthrall'd, the image of his God.

See, on the Andes' fronts of snow
The battle-fires of Freedom glow,
Where triumph hails the children of the sun,
Beneath the banner of their Washington.

EBENEZER BAILEY.

Go on, victorious Bolivar!

Oh! fail not-faint not-in the war
Waged for the liberty of nations!

Go on, resistless as the earthquake's shock,
When all your everlasting mountains rock
Upon their deep foundations.

And Greece, the golden clime of light and song,
Where infant genius first awoke

To arts and arms and godlike story,—
Wept for her fallen sons in bondage long:
She weeps no more ;-Those sons have broke
Their fetters,-spurn the slavish yoke,
And emulate their fathers' glory.

The Crescent wanes before the car
Of liberty's ascending Star,

And Freedom's banners wave upon
The ruins of the Parthenon.
The clash of arms rings in the air,
As erst it rung at Marathon;-
Let songs of triumph echo there!
Be free! ye Greeks, or, failing, die
In the last trench of liberty.

Ye hail the name of Washington; pursue
The path of glory he has mark'd for you.

But should your recreant limbs submit once more
To hug the soil your fathers ruled before

Like gods on earth,—if o'er their hallow'd graves Again their craven sons shall creep as slaves, When shall another Byron sing and bleed For you!-oh, when for you another Webster plead!

Ye christian kings and potentates,
Whose sacrilegious leagues have twined
Oppression's links around your States,

Say, do ye idly hope to bind

The fearless heart and thinking mind?
When ye can hush the tempest of the deep,
Make the volcano in its cavern sleep,

Or stop the hymning spheres, ye may control,
With sceptred hand, the mighty march of soul.

But what are ye? and whence your power
Above the prostrate world to tower,

And lord it all alone?

What god-what fiend-has e'er decreed,
That one shall reign, while millions bleed