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THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief;

Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

LINES ON A SKULL.

BEHOLD this ruin!-'twas a skull,
Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was life's retreat

This space was Thought's mysterious seat ;-
What beauteous pictures filled this spot!
What dreams of pleasure, long forgot!
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Has left one trace or record here!

Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye;
But start not at the dismal void,
If social love that eye employed,—
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,-

But through the dew of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be for ever bright
When stars and suns have lost their light.

Here, in this silent cavern hung

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;

If falsehood's honey is disdained,

And, where it could not praise, was chained—
If bold in virtue's cause, it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke.

That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee When death unveils eternity.

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock, to wear the gem,
Can nothing now avail to them;
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth or fame.

Avails it, whether bare or shod,
These feet the path of duty trod?
If from the bowers of joy they fled,
To soothe affliction's humble bed-
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to virtue's lap returned-
These feet with angels' wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.

MY BIRTHDAY.

BY T. MOORE.

"My birthday"-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful years!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white the mark appears.
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links,
That time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.

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Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said "Were he ordained to run
His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birthdays, speaks to me;
Far otherwise of time it tells,

Lavished unwisely-carelessly-
Of counsel mocked, of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines ;—
Of nursing many a wrong desire-
Of wandering after love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star!
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface,

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away:-

All but that freedom of the mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,

And comfortless, and stormy, round!

LORD BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

“ Missolonghi, Jan. 23, 1824.

"On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year."

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move; Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys,
Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze;-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
Th' exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share ;

But wear the chain.

But 'tis not here-it is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor nowWhere glory seals the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield

Was not more free.

200

LORD BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

Awake! not Greece she is awake!

Awake, my spirit,—think through whom My life-blood tastes its parent lake—

And then strike home!

I tread reviving passions down,
Unworthy Manhood-unto thee,
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret thy youth-why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here-up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best,
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

THE CONVICT SHIP.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

MORN of the waters !-and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along ;
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds:

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