Oh! many a temple, once sublime
Beneath a blue, Italian sky,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!

And rear'd midst crags and clouds 'tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O'er mouldering towers by lovely Rhine
Cresting the rocky shore.

High from the fields of air, look down,
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass'd, and left no trace;
But thou art there!-Thy foliage bright,
Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave,-
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,
That rise round grandeur's marble halls,
The vivid hues by painting thrown,
Rich o'er the glowing walls,-
The Acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptured beauty waving fair;-
These, perish all-and what remains?
Thou-thou alone art there!

"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,

August in beauty, grace, and strength,

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,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,
That I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou would'st stay even as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own,
But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

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,
Less and less white its mark appears.-Moore.

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

Toone, whose heart would leap to be a happy boy again!

A change has o'er my spirit pass'd, 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 bow'd to it my

brow,

And it is like a coal upon my living spirit now;

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MY BIRTHDAY.

But when I pray'd for fire from Heaven to touch the soul, I bow'd,

I little thought the lightning flash would come in such a cloud.

Ye give me joy! Is it because another year has fled? That I am farther from my youth, and nearer to the dead?

Is it that manhood's cares are come,—my happy boyhood o'er,

Because the visions I have loved, will visit me no more!

Oh wherefore give me joy, when I can smile no welcome back?

I've found no flower, and seen no light, on manhood's weary track:

My love is deep-ambition deep-and heart and mind will on,

But love is fainting by the way, and fame consumes ere won!

Philadelphia, May 2, 1829.

SONG

FOR THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

APOLLO has peep'd through the shutter,
And waken'd the witty and fair;
The boarding school belle's in a flutter,
The twopenny post's in despair;
The breath of the morning is flinging
A magic on blossom, on spray;
And cockneys and sparrows are singing
In chorus on Valentine's day.

SONG FOR VALENTINE'S DAY. Away with ye, dreams of disaster,

Away with ye, visions of law,
Of cases I never shall master,

Of pleadings I never shall draw:
Away with ye, parchments and papers,
Red tapes, unread volumes, away;
It gives a fond lover the vapours
To see you on Valentine's day.

I'll sit in my nightcap, like Hayley,
I'll sit with my arms cross'd, like Spain,
Till joys, which are vanishing daily,
Come back in their lustre again :
Oh shall I look over the waters,
Or shall I look over the way,

For the brightest and best of earth's daughters,
To rhyme to on Valentine's day?

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Shall I crown with my worship, for fame's sake,
Some goddess whom fashion has starr'd;
Make puns on Miss Love and her namesake,
Or pray for a pas with Brocard?

Shall I flirt, in romantic idea,

With Chester's adorable clay,

Or whisper in transport-"Si mea

Cum Vestris-" on Valentine's day?

Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia,

Whom no one e'er saw or may see,

A fancy-drawn Laura Amelia,

An ad libit. Anna Marie?

Shall I court an initial with stars to it,
Go mad for a G. or a J.,

Get Bishop to put a few bars to it,

And print it on Valentine's day?