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THE WOOD.

Come to the fading wood,
Ye youth! of forehead fair, and ringlets bright;
See how the leaf falls stealing to the ground,

Killed by the north-wind rude,
That through the boughs prolongs its melancholy sound.

Come thoughtful to the wood,
Beauty! with downy cheek and sparkling eye!
The bloom that mounts thy lip with this compare :

Lo, where yon arbour stood,
It lent a kiss as sweet, a blush almost as fair!

Come to the dripping wood,
Love! shield thy quiver ’neath thy golden wing :
Hear rain-drops trickling from the withered spray!

'T is Nature's saddest mood,
She
weeps,

that thy dear smile so soon must pass away.

Come to the pensive wood, Come, Pride! and doff thy spangled scarf awhile ; 'T will tell thee there's an autumn to thy joys,

Nor canst thou curb the flood Time's wave oblivious pours to drown thy worthless toys!

Come to the warning wood,
Pleasure! oh, hide thy tabor 'midst its leaves ;
Their whispers say, thy summer song is short

As that of feathered brood,
Who, having chanted, fly 'mid milder skies to sport.

Come to the faithless wood,
Wealth! I would shew thee how thy pleasures flee,
And lesson teach to tame thy haughty brow;

Oh, be it understood -
Gold is Potosi's dust.

:-a gilded shade art thou !

Come to the rifled wood,
Pale Poverty! and breathe thy fruitless plaint,
No more the gaudy spring, for others made,

Shall on thy griefs intrude;-
Here thou may'st weep secure, stretched in the chilling shade.

Come, Sorrow! to the wood,
And with its joyless boughs congenial sigh, -
Ere spring shall bid them their attire resume,
O'er many a wretch shall close the turfy tomb.

Life! thou 'rt a vapour-cloud!
Aye shrouding deep in damp autumnal gloom

The swelling heart, that pants for purer worlds to come!
Baltimore Gazette.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

0! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears, —
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,-
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;-
Fair, gentle as when first I sued
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;
Or lingered ʼmid the falling dew,
When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time and care and birth-time woes
Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose;
To thee and thoughts of thee belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free -
They come, my love, they come from thee.
O, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,
’T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er
What things should deck our humble bower!
’T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine,-
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.
At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,-
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower:
O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak —
I think the wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine!
Literary Souvenir.

I'M SADDEST WHEN I SING.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ.

You think I have a merry heart

Because my songs are gay,
But, oh! they all were taught to me,

By friends now far away:

The bird will breathe her silver note

Though bondage binds her wing ;But is her song a happy one?

I'm saddest when I sing !

I heard them first in that sweet home

I never more shall see,
And now each song of joy has got

A mournful turn for me :

Alas! 'tis vain in winter time

To mock the songs of spring,
Each note recalls some withered leaf-

I'm saddest when I sing !

Of all the friends I used to love,

My harp remains alone;
Its faithful voice still seems to be

An echo to my own :

My tears when I bend over it

Will fall upon its string,
Yet those who hear me, little think

I'm saddest when I sing !

THE HOLIDAY.

BY N. T. CARRINGTON.

It is a morn of June : from east to west
The ships are steerless on the Channel's breast;
And o'er the rocks that fringe isle, reef, and bay,
Light rolling now the murmuring surges play;
In music breaking where of late the roar
Atlantic, burst around the groaning shore:
For Ocean here his billow flings on high,
If the spring-breeze but sportively pass by;
But lists to Summer's breathings — wooed and won
By the warm kisses of the conquering sun.

It is a morn of June :— the gentle Spring
Has flown; but shook such freshness from her wing
O’er field and grove, that Summer's matron day
Wears thy rich virgin hues, delicious May;
And there are strains from bush, and brake, and bower,
Raptured as those which bless the vernal hour.
All earth is vocal; and the heavens reply,–
A thousand voices wander through the sky;
For there the lark — the master-minstrel sings,
And upward-upward soars on fearless wings;
Till earth recal him to her verdant breast,
And love direct the lyrist to his nest.

0, sweet is such a morn to him who loves
The heaven's clear song- the harmonies of groves ;
Who blessed by leisure, strays in woodlands green,
And wanders oft through all the breathing scene;-
'Mid leafy luxuries who takes his rest,
Or bathes his brow in breezes of the west ;
On mountain, moorland, seeks Hygeian gales,
Or dwells with silence in the fragrant vales.
All lovely sounds are with him; lark and bee,
Linnet and thrush, unite their melody ;

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