Mown down like swathes of summer flowers, Yes! here thy life-star knew decline, Though hope, that strove to be deceived, Shaped thy lone course to Palestine, And what it wished full oft believed:- Marks out the spot where thou wast slain; And o'er the slopes where conflict rang, The quiet sheep were grazing. And were the nameless dead unsung, To find but death on Flodden Plain? TO THE IVY. BY MRS. HEMANS. OH! how could fancy grown with thee Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound The Roman, on his battle-plains, Yet, there, though fresh in glossy green, Where sleep the sons of ages flown, Where years are hastening to efface Wreath of the tomb! art there. Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods, On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes And cities of the dead; Deserted palaces of kings, Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown,- Oh! many a temple, once sublime Hath nought of beauty left by time, And reared midst crags and clouds 'tis thine High from the fields of air, look down, The breathing forms of Parian stone, 'Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see; The marvels of all ages fled, Left to decay and thee! And still let man his fabrics rear, Days pass, thou Ivy never sere, And all is thine at length. SONG. BY THE REV. J. WOLFE, IF I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be: And still upon that face I look, But when I speak, thou dost not say If thou would'st stay even as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, I do not think, where'er thou art, And I perhaps may soothe this heart, In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore! MY BIRTHDAY. BY N. P. WILLIS, ESQ. My birthday! As the day comes round, I'm twenty-two;-I'm twenty-two, they gaily give me joy, As if I should be glad to hear that I was less a boy; They do not know how carelessly their words have given pain To one, whose heart would leap to be a happy boy again! A change has o'er my spirit passed, my mirthful hours are few, The light is all departed now my early feelings knew; I used to love the morning gray, the twilight's quiet deep, But now, like shadows on the sea, upon my thoughts they creep. And love was as a holy star, when this brief year was young, And my whole worship of the sky on one sweet ray was flung; But worldly things have come between, and shut it from my sight, And though that star shines purely yet, I mourn its hidden light! And fame!-I bent to it my knee, and bowed to it my brow, And it is like a coal upon my living spirit now; |