She faded with the flowers of spring, "T was shivering in the autumn blast. "T was the last one!-all-all were gone, They bloom'd not where the yew trees wave; Pale watchers o'er my mother's grave. I mark'd it, when full oft I sought It linger'd there to mourn with me! I've moisten'd it with many a tear, Now, lady, now the gift is thine! Oh, guard it with a vestal's care; ASA M. BOLLES, A NATIVE of Ashford, in Connecticut, was graduated at Brown University in 1823. THE ALBUM. In that proud temple of the Sun, Which rose to heaven on Balbec's towers, Amid the altars, there was one, Whose only offerings were flowers; When morning o'er the glittering dome Fresh garlands to that shrine were given Beautiful there those bright ones knelt, The day-spring in their bosom's glowing The Persian's fane has perished-gone Of music o'er the moonlit sea- And beauty has gone down like them. But love will have its altars still, Breathes incense all-while from above Such be this volume-let no trace And loveliness should have no tear HENRY J. FINN, A NATIVE of Virginia, and for some years past a resident of this city. He is well known to the public as an actor of rare talent. He was formerly one of the Managers of the Federal Street Theatre. A dramatic piece entitled The Falls of Montmorenci, written by him, was represented and published in 1825. He is also the author of a comedy, with the title of The Phrenologist, which has been performed, but not published THE TRIBUTE OF TRUTH. THE golden meshes of gay delight And passion has heated the heart of one, But the charm is gone-and the chain is cleft- Farewell! for the rainbow tints are fled From the wings of pleasure. But much more sweet And memory smiles at the distant sea, THE FUNERAL AT SEA. DEEP mists hung over the Mariner's grave And heavily heaved on the gloomy sea, When the waves were still, and the winds were gone. And there he lay, in his coarse, cold shroud— No sound from the church's passing-bell Not a whisper then linger'd upon the air- But many a sigh, and many a tear, Shall be breathed, and shed, in the hours to comeWhen the widow and fatherless shall hear How he died, far, far from his happy home! EMMA C. EMBURY, (FORMERLY Miss Manly,) Of New York. Her poems, published under the name of Ianthe in various periodicals, have lately appeared in a volume. JANE OF FRANCE. PALE, cold and statue-like she sate, and her impeded breath Came gaspingly, as if her heart was in the grasp of death, While listening to the harsh decree that robb'd her of a throne, And left the gentle child of kings in the wide world alone. And fearful was her look; in vain her trembling maidens moved, With all affection's tender care, round her whom well they loved; Stirless she sate, as if enchained by some resistless spell, Till with one wild, heart-piercing shriek in their embrace she fell. How bitter was the hour she woke from that long dreamless trance; The veriest wretch might pity then the envied Jane of France; But soon her o'erfraught heart gave way, tears came to her relief, And thus in low and plaintive tones she breath'd her hopeless grief: "Oh! ever have I dreaded this, since at the holy shrine My trembling hand first felt the cold, reluctant clasp of thine ; And yet I hoped-My own beloved, how may I teach my heart To gaze upon thy gentle face and know that we must part? "Too well I knew thou lovedst me not, but ah! I fondly thought That years of such deep love as mine some change ere this had wrought: I dream'd the hour might yet arrive, when sick of passion's strife, Thy heart would turn with quiet joy to thy neglected wife. |