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Alas! that mild, unchiding breast,
The flowers of spring shall wave
But love can never die-
Another dream shall break
XVIII. A MAN OF SORROWS.
[From the same.] A MAN of sorrows and of wo
'Twas thus, of old, the prophet sung, Who felt the words of heaven flow
In inspiration from his tongue : Well might the prophet's words be sooth
To all beneath the golden sun;
In the dark destiny of ONE.
Lofty, impetuous and sincere,
Conspired to lay those feelings seara
Deceived, deserted, and betrayed,
By many a shaft of fate pursued,
A melancholy solitude.
But found congenial warmth in none :
Was quickly blighted, and undone ; And then he buwed beneath the wo,
That brooded o'er life's little span ; He bent him to affliction's blow
He bent, but bore it like a man. In proud and uncomplaining grief,
He walked upon his lonely way; But have ye marked the yellow leaf,
Consuming on the broken spray? He loved its dying beauty well;
To him it had a warning tone, And when its bloom to ruin fell,
It seemed an emblem of his own. He loved to watch the setting sun
Go down beneath the crimson west;
That he might also be at rest.
Than life's accumulated wo;
Perchance would there forget to flow!
On spectres of the past to call ? For will it cool his burning brow
Or will it gild his spirit's pall? But yet there was a joyous time,
When youthful hope delighted sung, And o'er his bright and golden prime,
The sunny sky of fortune hung. His heart was then in freshest play,
And in its fair unclouded spring ; And blithesome was his roundelay,
Like that of wild-birds on the wing. Oh, for that soul-enchanting song,
Which charmed his boyhood's rosy hours, When being's current swept along
A shore of verdure and of flowers. When freely flowed life's fountain ware
In waters of the purest blue,
And every scene existence gave
Was fresh, was beautiful, was new; When from the holy fane of thought
His mind derived supreme delight, And every tint that fancy caught
Was fair, and glorious, and bright: When all creation's ample space
Before him spread her bosom fair, And gratitude would fondly trace
A kind Creator's bounty there ; When on his grand majestic march
The sun pursued her glad career, And heaven unspread its smillng arch,
For day's resplendent charioteer!
Upon the soft and dewy sky,
In pensive loveliness on high ;
With silver clouds around her curled, Danced on the mountain height afar,
A cheering beacon to this world ! When on the mighty thunder storm,
The bow of promise bent its span;
Of erring but repentant man;
Where the black tempest hung his shroud, Glowing in mingled colours there,
The Almighty's banner on the cloud ! Oh! when his heart was in its prime,
These scenes were revelry to him, Ere the unsparing hand of time
Around them hung his mantle dim Ere each emotion selt the chill,
The blight, the scathe, the withering, The deep and agonizing thrill
Of a cold world's empoisoned sting. His earthly idols—where are they?
Aye--let the voice of memory tell! Sprung there one blessing on his way?
There the untimely mildew fell! Was there one flower upon his path?
There the hot blast of ruin blew, In all its desolating wrath,
To sear and scorch its bonny bue!
Behold him now !--the silvery frost
Not yet hath fallen on his head
His every hope of pleasure dead!
Ere bis brow wear the almond tree;
To iciness—and where is he?
Who dance the days of life away
Seeming the gayest of the gay!
Where pleasure leads her frolic train,
Where folly holds her orgies vain !
When lighter hearts are lost in sleep;
Of anguish too severe to weep!
Which o'er his agony he flings-
And hides his death-wound with his wings,
Victim of sorrow! thou must bear,
To hide the barbed arrows there.
Soon may the green grass o'er thee ware-
His parting light upon thy grave !
XIX. RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD.
Morning Chronicle. Baltimore.] WHEN first in childhood's happy years,
Ere pleasure knew decline, We wondered why the old shed tears
For Auld Lang Syne. The future, then, was spread with flowers,
Joy's sun did brightly shine ; And we thought not then of former hours
Of Auld Lang Syne.
Too young to know the pangs of life,
No wo could we repine, For we wept no hours with trouble rife
In Auld Lang Sync. when clouds have dimmed our day,
When sorrows made us pine ; We cheer the gloom, with a glimmering ray
Of Auld Lang Syne. 'Tis a sun bright spot on “ Life's dark stream;"!
Which gaily e'er shall shine, And our happiest hour is our longest dream
Of Auld Lang Syne.
Affection won't decline ;
Of Auld Lang Syne.
XX. THE SNAIL.
Answered the purposes for which thou art,
ave, when some ruminating wretch, as I,