BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

It is the summer of the fleeting year,

On the brown sward the flowers are faint and few; All songs are hushed; and but the clear halloo And 'larum of the bird-boy reach the ear.

Through the warm air floats far the lime's perfume, But wayside boughs have lost the rose's bloom.

The corn is golden on a thousand slopes,
All crisply rustling to the living breeze;
And 'mid the billowy sound of summer trees
I wander, pondering on departed hopes;
Nor hopes alone, but pleasant lives departed,—
I walk alone-for I am lonely hearted.

What of those blest affections have I found,
Which life should ripen like its summer corn?
Which has not from my feeble grasp been torn,
Of all the love with which young life was crowned?
Hearts which if I should seek, I know not where
To find their graves-yet have they long been there.

These fell away like leaves when life was new,
Smit by that blight which to the fairest clings;
And though I have lived on through many springs,
No greenness follows where those first buds grew.
Still glows the heart, but glows without the power
To give or gain the freshness of that hour.

Yet why should I be sad?-for nature spreads
Her wealth before me daily; from her heart,
Doth joys, proud thoughts, sweet sympathies impart,
Which I drink in as one who nothing dreads.

Fearless that her's, like man's weak mind should fall,
Her face should darken, or her pleasures pall.

Yet why should I be sad?-for I have found

One true companion,— one dear soul is mine,

Whose converse still doth soothe, arouse, refine;
And on my hearth there is a cheerful sound
Of lightsome feet, and tones that in my ears
Ring like the hopes and joys of other years.

Then, though the false depart, the weak descend,
Though lights which seemed immortal cease to burn,
Though it be mine with bitter tears to mourn
Life's sorest sight—a soul-debased friend;
Firm is my faith in truth and virtue's lot,

Though thousands feign, and myriads feel them not. Literary Souvenir.

A WINTER PIECE.

It was a winter's evening, and fast came down the snow,
And keenly o'er the wide heath the bitter blast did blow,
When a damsel all forlorn, quite bewildered in her way,
Pressed her baby to her bosom, and sadly thus did say :-

"Oh! cruel was my father, that shut his door on me!
And cruel was my mother that such a sight could see;
And cruel is the wintry wind that chills my heart with cold;
But crueller than all, the youth who left my love for gold!

Hush, hush, my lovely baby, and warm thee in my breast,—

Ah! little thinks thy father how sadly we 're distrest!

For cruel as he is, did he know but how we fare,

He'd shield us in his arms from this bitter piercing air.

"Cold, cold, my dearest jewel! thy little life is gone!
Oh, let my tears revive thee! so fast that trickle down;
My tears that gush so warm, oh! they freeze before they fall,
Ah! wretched, wretched mother! thou 'rt now bereft of all."

Then down she sank, despairing, upon the drifted snow,
And, wrung with killing anguish, lamented loud her woe :
She kissed her baby's pale lips, and laid it by her side,
Then cast her eyes to heaven, and bowed her head and died.

THE BETTER LAND.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

"I hear thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?-
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?-
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle-boughs?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?.
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old,

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?–
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child !

'Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child!"

Literary Souvenir.

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE GRAVE OF AN

ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.

BY ISMAEL FITZADAM.

A lonely grave is thine, poor child!
A lonely grave is thine;

No mother's form, in anguish wild,

May o'er thy clay recline,
Beside this little spot of scorn

No sister's love appear;

The flowers that weep at prime of morn
The only mourners here!

Nor dares a father's manlier part

Here vent a father's care,

Remorse would wring his conscious heart,
And hush even nature there.

Thy mother's step would turn away,

Her cheek were dashed with shame-
Orphaned by guilt, thy moment's stay
Nor parent knew, nor name.

Oh, curse of guilt, all curse above!
That "hardens a' within,"
That sours a mother's milk of love
With sorrow, scorn, and sin-
For thee, lorn babe! no tender throe
Might a parent's hope employ,
Thy birth-hour was an hour of woe,
Thy death a tale of joy!

Thrice blest, that to thy day of pain
A date so brief was given;

The light of earth scarce seen, till ta’en

To see the light of heaven!

Had riper periods o'er thee past,

Reproach had galled thy way,

And thou hadst died, perchance, at last,
To grief and guilt a prey.

SONNETS FROM PETRARCH.

BY LADY DACRE.

I.

If the lorn bird complain, or rustling sweep

Soft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow,
Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep,
Where on the enamelled bank I sit below,

With thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow;
'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep!

Her, formed in Heaven! I see, and hear, and know! Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep:

"Alas!" she pitying says,

66 ere yet the hour, Why hurry life away with swifter flight?

Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour?

No longer mourn my fate! through death my days
Become eternal! to eternal light

These eyes which seemed in darkness closed, I raise!"

II.

The eyes, the face, the limbs of heavenly mould,
So long the theme of my impassioned lay,
Charms which so stole me from myself away,
That strange to other men the course I hold :
The crisped locks of pure and lucid gold;
The lightning of the angelic smile, whose ray
To earth could all of Paradise convey,
A little dust are now!—to feeling cold!
And yet I live!-but that I live bewail;

Sunk the loved light that through the tempest led
My shattered bark, bereft of mast and sail :
Hushed be the song that breathed love's purest fire;
Lost is the theme on which my fancy fed,

And turned to mourning my once tuneful lyre.