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A PLEDGE TO THE DYING YEAR.

FILL to the brim! one pledge to the past,
As it sinks on its shadowy bier;

Fill to the brim! 'tis the saddest and last

We pour to the grave of the year : Wake, the light phantoms of beauty that won us To linger awhile in those bowers;

And flash the bright day beams of promise upon us,
That gilded life's earlier hours.

Here's to the love-though it flitted away,
We can never, no, never forget!
Through the gathering darkness of many a day,
One pledge will we pour to it yet.

Oh, frail as the vision, that witching and tender,
And bright on the wanderer broke,

When Irem's own beauty in shadowless splendor,
Along the wild desert awoke.*

Fill to the brim! one pledge to the glow
Of the heart in its purity warm!

Ere sorrow had sullied the fountain below,
Or darkness enveloped the form:

Fill to that life-tide! oh, warm was its rushing
Through Adens of arrowy light,

And yet like the wave in the wilderness gushing, "Twill gladden the wine cup to-night.

Fill to the past! from its dim distant sphere
Wild voices in melody come;

The strains of the bygone, deep echoing here,
We pledge to their shadowy tomb;

And like the bright orb, that in sinking flings back
One gleam o'er the cloud-covered dome,
May the dreams of the past, on futurity track
The hope of a holier home!

"WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD."

Он, weep not for the dead!
Rather, oh rather give the tear
To those who darkly linger here,
When all besides are fled :
Weep for the spirit withering
In its cold, cheerless sorrowing;
Weep for the young and lovely one
That ruin darkly revels on,

But never be a tear-drop shed
For them, the pure enfranchised dead.

Oh, weep not for the dead!
No more for them the blighting chill,
The thousand shades of earthly ill,

The thousand thorns we tread; Weep for the life-charm early flown, The spirit broken, bleeding, lone; Weep for the death pangs of the heart, Ere being from the bosom part;

But never be a tear-drop given
To those that rest in yon blue heaven.

*Irem, one of the gardens described by Mohammedplanted, as the commentators of the Koran say, by a king named Shedad, once seen by an Arabian, who wandered very far into the desert in search of a lost camel: a gar

DREAM OF LIFE.

I HEARD the music of the wave,
As it rippled to the shore,
And saw the willow branches lave,

As light winds swept them o'er-
The music of the golden bow

That did the torrent span;
But I heard a sweeter music flow
From the youthful heart of man.

The wave rushed on-the hues of heaven
Fainter and fainter grew,

And deeper melodies were given

As swift the changes flew :
Then came a shadow on my sigh;

The golden bow was dim-
And he that laughed beneath its light,
What was the change to him?

I saw him not only a throng
Like the swell of troubled ocean,
Rising, sinking, swept along

In the tempest's wild commotion :
Sleeping, dreaming, waking then,
Chains to link or sever-
Turning to the dream again,
Fain to clasp it ever.

There was a rush upon my brain,
A darkness on mine eye;
And when I turned to gaze again,
The mingled forms were nigh:
In shadowy mass a mighty hall
Rose on the fitful scene;
Flowers, music, gems, were flung o'er all,
Not such as once had been.

Then in its mist, far, far away,

A phantom seemed to be;
The something of a bygone day-

But oh, how changed was he!
He rose beside the festal board,

Where sat the merry throng; And as the purple juice he poured, Thus woke his wassail song:

SONG.

COME! while with wine the goblets flow,
For wine they say has power to bless;
And flowers, too-not roses, no!

Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness!

A lethé for departed bliss,

And each too well remembered scene: Earth has no sweeter draught than this,

Which drowns the thought of what has been.

Here's to the heart's cold iciness,

Which can not smile, but will not sigh:

If wine can bring a chill like this,

Come, fill for me the goblet high.
Come and the cold, the false, the dead,
Shall never cross our revelry;
We'll kiss the wine cup sparkling red,
And snap the chain of memory.

den no less celebrated (says Sir W. Jones) by the Asiatic poets, than that of the Hesperides by the Greeks.

M. ST. LEON LOUD.

MARGUERITE ST. LEON BARSTOW was born in the rural town of Wysox, among the windings of the Susquehannah, in Bradford county, Pennsylvania. In 1824 she was married to Mr. Loud, of Philadelphia; and, except during a short period passed in the South, has since resided in that city. Her poems have for the most part appeared in the United States Gazette and in the Philadelphia

monthly magazines. Mr. Edgar A. Poe, in his Autography, says of Mrs. Loud, that she "has imagination of no common order, and, unlike many of her sex, is not

Content to dwell in decencies forever."

While she can, upon occasion, compose the ordinary singsong with all the decorous proprieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures very frequently into a more ethereal region."

A DREAM OF THE LONELY ISLE.
THERE is an isle in the far South sea,
Sunny and bright as an isle can be;
Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave,
As its sparkling waters the green shores lave;
And from the shell that upon the strand
Lies half buried in golden sand—

. A thrilling tone through the still air rings,
Like music trembling on fairy strings.
Flowers like those which the Peris find
In the bowers of their paradise, and bind
In the flowing tresses, are blooming there,
And gay birds glance through the scented air.
Gems and pearls are strewed on the earth
Untouched-there are known to know their worth;
And that fair island Death comes not nigh:
Why should he come?-there are none to die.
My heart had grown, like the misanthrope's,
Cold and dead to all human hopes;
Fame and fortune alike had proved
Baseless dreams, and the friends I loved
Vanished away, like the flowers that fade
In the deadly blight of the Upas' shade.
I longed upon that green isle to be,

Far away o'er the sounding sea,

Where no human voice, with its words of pain, Could ever fall on my ear again.

Life seemed a desert waste to me,

And I sought in slumber from care to flee.
Away, away, o'er the waters blue,

Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew.
Deep ocean-furrows her timbers plough,
As the waves are parted before her prow;
And the foaming billows close o'er her path,
Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath.
But swiftly onward, through foam and spray,
To the lonely island she steers her way:
The heavens above wore their brightest smile,
As the bark was moored by that fairy isle;
The sails were furled, the voyage was o'er;
I should buffet the waves of the world no more!
I looked to the ocean-the bark was gone,

And I stood on that beautiful isle alone.
My wish was granted, and I was blest;
My spirit revelled in perfect rest—
A Dead sea calm-even Thought reposed
Like a weary dove with its pinions closed.
Beauty was round me: bright roses hung
Their blushing wreaths o'er my head, and flung
Fragance abroad on the gale—to me
Sweeter than odors of Araby;
Wealth was mine, for the yellow gold
Lay before me in heaps untold.
Death to that island knew not the way,
But life was mine for ever and aye,
Till Love again made my heart its throne,
And I ceased to dwell on the isle alone.

Long did my footsteps delighted range
My peaceful home, but there came a change:
My heart grew sad, and I looked with pain
On all I had bartered life's ties to gain.
A chilling weight on my spirits fell,
As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell-
Or the bee's faint hum in the flowery wood,
Was all that broke on my solitude.
Oh! then I felt, in my loneliness,
That earth had no power the heart to bless,
Unwarmed by affection's holy ray;
And hope was withered, as day by day

I watched for the bark, but in vain-in vain ;
She never sought that green isle again!

I stretched my arms o'er the heaving sea,
And prayed aloud, in my agony,

That Love's pure spirit might with me dwell.
Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell,
Higher and higher, till naught was seen
Where slept in beauty that islet green.
The waters passed o'er me-the spell was broke;
From the dream of the lonely isle I woke,
With a heart redeemed from its selfish stain,
To mingle in scenes of the world again
With cheerful spirit-and rather share
The pains and sorrows which mortals bear,
Than dwell where no shade on my path is thrown,
Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems alone.

THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD.

THERE is a lonely homestead
In a green and quiet vale,
With its tall trees sighing mournfully
To every passing gale;

There are many mansions round it,
In the sunlight gleaming fair;
But moss-grown is that ancient roof,
Its walls are gray and bare.
Where once glad voices sounded
Of children in their mirth,
No whisper breaks the solitude
By that deserted hearth.
The swallow from her dwelling

In the low eaves hath flown;

And all night long, the whip-poor-will
Sings by the threshold stone.
No hand above the window

Ties up the trailing vines;

And through the broken casement-panes
The moon at midnight shines.
And many a solemn shadow

Seems starting from the gloom;
Like forms of long-departed ones
Peopling that dim o'd room.
No furrow for the harvest

Is drawn upon the plain,
And in the pastures green and fair
No herds or flocks remain.
Why is that beauteous homestead

Thus standing bare and lone,

While all the worshipped household gods
In dust lie overthrown.

And where are they whose voices
Rang out o'er hill and dale?
Gone-and their mournful history
Is but an oft-told tale.
There smiles no lovelier valley
Beneath the summer sun,
Yet they who dwelt together there,
Departed one by one.
Some to the quiet churchyard,

And some beyond the sea;

To meet no more, as once they met,
Beneath that old roof-tree.
Like forest-birds forsaking

Their sheltering native nest,

The young to life's wild scenes went forth, The aged to their rest.

Fame and ambition lured them

From that green vale to roam,
But as their dazzling dreams depart,
Regretful memories come
Of the valley and the homestead--

Of their childhood pure and free-
Till each world-weary spirit pines
That spot once more to see.
Oh! blest are they who linger

Mid old familiar things,
Where every object o'er the heart

A hallowed influence flings.
Though won are wealth and honors-
Though reached fame's lofty dome-
There are no joys like those which dwell
Within our childhood's home.

PRAYER FOR AN ABSENT HUSBAND.

FATHER in heaven!

Behold, he whom I love is daily treading
The path of life in heaviness of soul.
With the thick darkness now around him spreading
He long hath striven-

Oh, thou most kind! break not the golden bowl.
Father in heaven!

Thou who so oft hast healed the broken-hearted,
And raised the weary spirit bowed with care,
Let him not say his joy hath all departed,
Lest he be driven

Down to the deep abyss of dark despair.

Father in heaven!

Oh, grant to his most cherished hopes a blessingLet peace and rest descend upon his head, That his torn heart, thy holy love possessing, May not be riven

Let guardian angels watch his lonely bed.

Father in heaven!

Oh, may his heart be stayed on thee! each feeling Still lifted up in gratitude and love;

And may that faith the joys of heaven revealing To him be given,

Till he shall praise thy name in realms above.

REST IN THE GRAVE.

Он, peaceful grave! how blest

Are they who in thy quiet chambers rest,
After the feverish strife-

The wild, dark, turbulent career of life!.....

There shall the throbbing brain,

The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain,
Find undisturbed repose-

No more to struggle with its weight of woes.
No passionate desires

For some bright goal to which the soul aspires-
Forever unattained-consume like quenchless fires.

Oh! for a dreamless sleep,

A slumber calm and deep,

A long and silent midnight in the tomb,
Where no dim visions of the past may come;
No haunting memories-no tears,

Nor voices which the startled spirit hears,
Whispering mysteriously of ill in coming years.
Peace-peace unbroken dwells,

Oh grave! in thy lone cells.

And yet not lone, for they

Who've passed from earth away,

People thy realms-the beautiful, the young,
The kindred who around my pathway flung
All that earth had of brightness-and the tomb
Is robbed of all its gloom.

There would I rest, O Grave!

Till thy unstormy wave

Hath overswept the whole of life's bleak shore;
In thy deep stream of calm forgetfulness
My soul would sink-no more
To brave within a frail, unanchored bark,
Life's tossing billows and its tempests dark.

EMMA C. EMBURY.

THIS graceful and popular authoress — the Mitford of our country-to whom we are in so large a degree indebted for redeeming the "ladies' magazines," so called, from the reproach of frivolity and sickly sentiment, is a daughter of Dr. James R. Manley, for many years one of the most eminent physicians of New York, from whom she inherits all the peculiar pride and prejudice that make up the genuine Knickerbocker. She was married, it appears from the New York Mirror of the following Saturday, on the tenth of May, 1828, to Mr. Daniel Embury, now of Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune, who is well known for his taste and scholarly acquirements.

Mrs. Embury's native interest in literature was manifested by an early appreciation of the works of genius, and her poetical talents were soon recognised and admired. Under the signature of "Ianthe," she gave to the public numerous effusions, which were distinguished for vigor of language and genuine depth of feeling. A volume of these youthful but most promising compositions was selected and published, under the title of Guido and other Poems. Since her marriage, she has given to the public more prose than verse, but the former is characterized by the same romantic spirit which is the essential beauty of poetry. Many of her tales are founded upon a just observation of life, although not a few are equally remarkable for attractive

invention. In point of style, they often possess the merit of graceful and pointed diction, and the lessons they inculcate are invariably of a pure moral tendency. Constance Latimer, or The Blind Girl, is perhaps better known than any other of her single productions; and this, as well as her Pictures of Early Life, has passed through a large number of editions. In 1845 she published, in a beautiful quarto volume, with pictorial illustrations, Nature's Gems, or American Wild Flowers, a work which contains some of the finest specimens of her writings, in both prose and verse. In 1846 she gave to the public a collection of graceful poems, under the title of Love's Token Flowers; and, in 1848, The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's Legends, a little volume in which she has happily adapted the romantic and poetical legendary of Brittany to the tastes of our own country and the present age; and a work entitled Glimpses of Home Life, in which many of the beautiful fictions she had written for the magazines, having a unity and completeness of design, are reproduced, to run anew the career of popularity through which they passed on their first and separate publication. The tales and sketches by Mrs. Embury are very numerous, probably not less than one hundred and fifty; and several such delightful series, evincing throughout the same true cultivation and refinement of taste and feeling, might be made from them.

TWO PORTRAITS FROM LIFE.

1.

On, what a timid watch young Love was keeping
When thou wert fashioned in such gentle guise!
How was thy nature nursed with secret sighs!
What bitter tears thy mother's heart were steeping!
Within the crystal depths of thy blue eyes
A world of troubled tenderness lies sleeping,
And on thy full and glowing lip there lies
A shadow that portends thee future weeping.
Tender and self-distrustful-doubting still
Thyself, but trusting all the world beside,
Tremblingly sensitive to coming ill,

Blending with woman's softness manhood's pride,
How wilt thou all life's future conflicts bear,
And fearless suffer all that man must do and dare?

11.

PROUD,Self-sustained and fearless! dreading naught
Save falsehood-loving everything but sin-
How glorious is the light that from within
Illumes thy boyish face with lofty thought!
A child thou art-but thy deep eyes are fraught
With that mysterious light by genius shed,
And in thine aspect is a glory caught
From the high dreams that cluster round thy head:
I know not what thy future lot may be,
But, when men gather to a new crusade
Against earth's falsehood, wrong, and tyranny,
Thou wilt be there with all thy strength dis-
played-

Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict's roar,
And on thy banner, writ in stars, "Excelsior!"

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Children of humbler, happier lineage twined:
Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind
Of pageants where she bore a heartless part;
She who shared not her monarch-husband's doom
Cared little for her first-born's living tomb.
Thou art at rest:

Child of Ambition's martyr! life had been
To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene

Of doubt, and dread, and suffering at the best; For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times, Would lead to sorrows-it may be to crimes!

Thou art at rest:

The idle sword hath worn its sheath away;
The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay;
And they, who with vain tyranny comprest
Thy soul's high yearnings, now forget their fear,
And fling ambition's purple o'er thy bier!

SYMPATHY.

LIKE the sweet melody which faintly lingers
Upon the windharp's strings at close of day,
When gently touched by evening's dewy fingers
It breathes a low and melancholy lay:
So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth ;
And while its magic spell is round me cast,
My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth,
And vaguely blends the future with the past.
But vain such dreams while pain my bosom thrilleth,
And mournful memories around me move;
E'en friendship's alchemy no balm distilleth,
To soothe th' immedicable wound of love.
Alas, alas! passion too soon exhaleth
The dewy freshness of the heart's young flowers;
We water them with tears, but naught availeth—
They wither on through all life's later hours.

AUTUMN EVENING.

"And Isaac went out in the field to meditate at eventide."

Go forth at morning's birth,

When the glad sun, exulting in his might, Comes from the dusky-curtained tents of night,

Shedding his gifts of beauty o'er the earth; When sounds of busy life are on the air, And man awakes to labor and to care, Then hie thee forth: go out amid thy kind, Thy daily tasks to do, thy harvest-sheaves to bind.

Go forth at noontide hour,

Beneath the heat and burden of the day
Pursue the labors of thine onward way,

Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower; Where'er the footsteps of mankind are found Thou may'st discern some spot of hallowed ground, Where duty blossoms even as the rose, [enclose. Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteous bud Go forth at eventide,

When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill,
When e'en the hum of insect life is still,

And the bird's song on evening's breeze has died;
Go forth, as did the patriarch of old, [told,
And commune with thy heart's deep thoughts un-
Fathom thy spirit's hidden depths, and learn
The mysteries of life, the fires that inly burn.

Go forth at eventide,

The eventide of summer, when the trees
Yield their frail honors to the passing breeze,

And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed;
When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds
In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds,
Then wander forth, mid beauty and decay,
To meditate alone-alone to watch and pray.

Go forth at eventide,

Commune with thine own bosom, and be stillCheck the wild impulses of wayward will,

And learn the nothingness of human pride: Morn is the time to act, noon to endure; But, oh, if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure, Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod, Go forth at eventide, in heart to walk with God.

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