DAYS of my youth! ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth! ye are frosted and gray;
Eyes of my youth! your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth! ye are furrow'd all o'er;
Strength of my youth! all your vigour is gone;
Thoughts of my youth! your gay visions are flown;
Days of my youth! I wish not your
recall;
Hairs of my youth! I'm content you should fall;
Eyes of my youth! ye much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth! bath'd in tears have ye been;
Thoughts of my youth! ye have led me astray;
Strength of my youth! why lament your decay?
Days of my age! ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age! but a while can ye last;
Joys of my age! in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age! be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age! dread ye not the cold sod
Hopes of my age! be you fix'd on your
I SAW him on the battle eve,
When like a king he bore him
Proud hosts in glitt'ring helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs before him!
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds,
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds;
No daunting thoughts came o'er him:
He look'd around him, and his eye
Defiance flash'd to earth and sky!
He look'd on ocean, its broad breast
Was cover'd with his fleet;
On earth, and saw from east to west
His banner'd millions meet;
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,
The thunder of their feet!
He heard the imperial echoes ring -
He heard, and felt himself a king!
I saw him next alone: nor camp
Nor chief his steps attended;
Nor banner blaz'd, nor courser's tramp,
With war-cries proudly blended.
He stood alone, whom fortune high
So lately seem'd to deify;
He, who with Heaven contended,
Fled, like a fugitive and slave;
Behind, the foe! - before, the wave!
He stood; fleet, army, treasure, gone,-
Alone, and in despair!
While wave and wind swept ruthless on,
For they were monarchs there;
And Xerxes in a single bark,
Where late his thousand ships were dark,
Must all their fury dare!
What a revenge!-a trophy this,
For thee, immortal Salamis !
To mark the sufferings of the babe
That cannot speak its woe;
To see the infant tears gush forth,
Yet know not why they flow;
To meet the meek uplifted eye,
That fain would ask relief,
Yet can but tell of agony
This is a Mother's grief.
Through dreary days and darker nights,
To trace the march of death;
To hear the faint and frequent sigh,
The quick and shorten'd breath;
To watch the last dread strife draw near,
And pray that struggle brief,
Though all is ended with its close-
This is a Mother's grief!
To see, in one short hour, decay'd
The hope of future years;
To feel how vain a father's prayers,
How vain a mother's tears;
To think the cold grave now must close
O'er what was once the chief
Of all the treasur'd joys of earth
This is a Mother's grief!
Yet when the first wild throb is past
Of anguish and despair,
To lift the eye of Faith to heaven,
And think, "My child is there!
This best can dry the gushing tears,
This yields the heart relief;
Until the Christian's pious hope
O'ercomes a Mother's grief.
LIKE pendent flakes of vegetating snow,
The early herald of the infant year,
Ere yet the adventurous crocus dares to blow,
Beneath the orchard boughs thy buds appear.
While still the cold north-east ungenial lowers,
And scarce the hazle in the leafless copse,
Or sallows show their downy powder'd flowers,
The grass is spangled with thy silver drops.
Yet when those pallid blossoms shall give place
To countless tribes, of richer hue and scent,
Summer's gay blooms, and Autumn's yellow race,
I shall thy pale inodorous bells lament.
So journeying onward in life's varying track,
Ev'n while warm youth its bright illusion lends,
Fond memory often with regret looks back
To childhood's pleasures, and to infant friends.
MRS. C. SMITH.
It matters little at what hour o' the day
The righteous falls asleep; death cannot come
To him untimely who is fit to die;
The less of this cold world, the more of heaven,
The briefer life, the earlier immortality.
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird
That flutters least is longest on the wing."
THE stillest streams lend life and light
To fairest meads of spring;
The bird that flutters least in sight
Is longest on the wing.
The sweetest flowers their odours shed
In silence, and alone;
And wisdom's hidden fount is fed
By minds to fame unknown.
But soon or late the time will come,
Though long it seem deferr'd,
When loudest talkers shall be dumb,
And silent doers heard.
Then shall a meed surpassing fame
To lowly worth be given,
Whose toil hath sought, with humble aim,
To guide the soul to Heaven!
THE western waves of ebbing day
Roll'd o'er the glen their level way;
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bath'd in floods of living fire.
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