A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR. THE more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages ; A day to childhood seems a year, The gladsome current of our youth, But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan, Ye stars, that measure life to man, When joys have lost their bloom and breath, Why, as we reach the Falls of death, It may be strange-yet who would change When one by one our friends have gone, Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of Youth, a seeming length, SONG. How delicious is the winning Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, Love he comes, and Love he tarries, Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Then bind Love to last for ever! Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel; Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured. Can you keep the bee from ranging, MARGARET AND DORA. MARGARET's beauteous-Grecian arts Ne'er drew form completer, Yet why, in my heart of hearts, Hold I Dora's sweeter? Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pass all painting's reach, The music of her speech. Artists! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvas show it; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet. THE POWER OF RUSSIA. So all this gallant blood has gush'd in vain! And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again. O British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hush'd or meek! O heartless men of Europe-Goth and Gaul, Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek ;That saw the world's last land of heroes fallThe brand of burning shame is on you all-allall! But this is not the drama's closing act ! Wo! wo! when they are reach'd by Russia's withering hate. Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored: He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant His standard fresh; and horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free. Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is pour'd, Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee, All-all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee. Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reel'd? O fair occasion, gone for ever by! To have lock'd his lances in their northern field, Innocuous as the phantom chivalry That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky! Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high; Dig dungeons deep; for Poland's wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command An awful width! Norwegian woods shall build main : Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write, |