Or pausing, as we mark'd afar,
The twinkli g of the evening star.

It is a dream, and thou art gone ;
The midnight breezes sigh;
And downcast-sorrowful-alone-

With sinking heart, I lie

To muse on days, when thou to me
Wert more than all on earth can be!

Oh! lonely is the lot of him,

Whose path is on the earth,

And when his thoughts are dark and dim,

Hears only vacant mirth ;

A swallow left, when all his kind

Have cross'd the seas and wing'd the wind.

BALLAD STANZAS.

Cette vie étoit trop douce pour pouvoir durer. Je le sentois, et l'inquietude de la voir finir etoit la seule chose qui en troubloit la jouissance.

Confessions, Livre VII.

How beauteous are the valleys, love, where we at eve have proved.

That it was pure delight itself to love as we have loved;
The sun, descending in the west, no happier pair did see,
When, young
and ardent in my heart, I burn'd for love of

thee!

How beautiful was Nature then, how lovely her attire! The music stream'd among the woods, as from a seraph's

lyre;

As I drank the angel eloquence that glisten'd in thine eye, The mountains wore a brighter green, more azure glow'd the sky.

Though years of shade have veil'd the scene whose beauty was so bright;

Though years have pass'd, and thou hast been a stranger to my sight,

Whene'er I gaze upon thy cheek, a talisman appears,
To wake the feelings and the thoughts of long departed

years.

The evening walk, the whisper'd talk amid the fields of

green,

When moonlight, with its magic rays, o'erhung the glowing scene:

As

young Affection told his tale, with ardour o'er and o'er, And I caress'd the yielding hand, that none had press'd before!

The old oak tree, beneath whose boughs in silence we have

stood,

As through the leaves the radiance gleam'd, and glitter'd on the flood

The briary bank, whose perfume rich was wafted on the

breeze,

And added pleasure to a scene where all combined to please.

All-all have pass'd; but yet, amid the wilderness of years, Amid the desert of the heart, where scarce a flower appears, The sunshine of the summer days, that blossom'd to depart, Reflects a beauty on the gloom and darkness of my heart.

THE

MATIN CAROL.

THE splendid matin sun

Is mounting upward through the orient skies ; The young day is begun,

And shadowy twilight from the landscape flies.

No more the grey owls roam,

Seeking their prey 'mid duskiness and shade ;

The bat hath hied him home,

And in some creviced pile a resting made.

Haste, then, my love, oh! haste;

The dews are melting from the fresh green grass: Arise-no longer waste

The pleasant hours, that thus so sweetly pass.