While I list to the notes as they float on the lea,
Of that far distant land in the Ægean sea.

Far-far 'mid its bowers sequester'd and lone,
Young Love hath erected a jessamine throne;
And sworn with an oath which no mortal may say,
That none but the fairest its sceptre shall sway.
Then haste thee, fair Irene, oh! haste thee tonight,
While the stars are yet pale, and the moon is yet bright,
For, love, he hath destined that sceptre for thee
In that bright sunny Isle of the Ægean sea.

THE WARRIOR.

"THE morning sun is shining bright upon the battle plain, And still thou sleep'st!-wake! warrior, wake-and take thy steed again,

The gore he's shaken from his mane, and now 't is floating fast,

Upon the breeze as it was wont amid the battle blast,

Thrice hath the war-peal thunder'd past since thou hast sunk to sleep,

Hath not it changed thy dreary dream, nor broke thy slumber deep?

Thrice hath the foemen's banner red in triumph floated by;
Did not the gleaming of its stars arrest thy closing eye?
Thy charger hot hath raised his voice as if thy rest to break;
He listens for his rider's call-wake! slumbering warrior-
wake!"

"Hush! gentle stranger, hush that strain," a weeping mother sung,

And sadly on the sighing winds the mournful music rung, "Hush, gentle stranger, hush that strain-my heart is lone and drear,

Thou canst not wake my warrior boy, who sleeps in silence here.

I've comb'd his flowing flaxen hair, and from it wiped the

dew,

Come, gaze upon the features pale, which oft I've loved to

view,

And if thy bosom e'er hath throbb'd a warrior's joys to know, Oh! read them on that sunken cheek-and in a mother's wo.

-They said, my boy, that Fame would twine a laurel green for thee,

Alas! alas! that it should leave the cypress sad to me.'"

THE MOTHER.

"SHE sleeps! how long she sleeps! the sun hath sunk beneath the west,

And risen twice, yet still she keeps that deep and placid rest. Why do they pass before me thus, her slumbering form to view?

Come hither, brother, thou and I will gaze upon her too;
But stay! we will not look there yet, but let us wait until
The midnight stars are beaming bright, and all around is still,
Save when the moaning winds sweep by in whispers low and
deep,

And then together we will go and view her in her sleep."

"Sister! tread softly! hark! that sound! 't was but the midnight hour

Tolling so harsh and heavily from yonder distant tower;
Come, sister, tremble not, 't is true the time is lone and drear,
And dimly burns the taper dark that sits beside the bier;
But thou didst breathe a prayer to me, a whisper'd prayer but

now,

To come at midnight hour and gaze upon thy mother's brow.
This is the hour, and we have pass'd along the silent hall,
And thus, as by the dead we stand, I take away the pall—
And here the coffin's lid I move-and here I raise the veil-
Turn, gentle sister, turn and look upon her features pale;
Stoop down and kiss her pallid cheek-though cold and damp
it be,

It is the same which in thy mirth so oft was press'd by thee.
And clasp in thine the lifeless hand that lays upon her breast,
Where pillow'd in thine infant years thou oft hast sunk to
rest."

"My eyes grow dim!-sweet brother, haste! and come with me away!

Is this the form which once I loved! this ghastly thing of clay?

They told me that she only slept-and that she still was fair, As when upon her brow I used to part her raven hair.

Is this my mother?—No, oh! no, not this on which I've

gazed,

Her eyes were bright like angel's eyes, but these are fix'd and

glazed,

Her lips were smiling like the sky that never knew a cloud; But these are silent, closed and pale-pale as the winding

shroud.

My eyes grow dim, sweet brother, haste and come with me

away

No, this is not the form I loved-this ghastly thing of clay."

WILLIS G. CLARK,

A NATIVE of Otisco, Onondaga county, New York, at present editor of The Ladies' Literary Port Folio, in Philadelphia.

LINES WRITTEN AT AN UNKNOWN GRAVE.

A MOURNFUL tone the night-air brings, about this lonely tomb,

Like thoughts of fair and faded things amid life's changeful

gloom;

Deep shadows of the past are here!-and fancy wanders back,

When joy woke in this mouldering breast, now pass'd from life's worn track:

When hope made glad his spirit here, as the pure summer

rain

Pours its sweet influence on the earth, with all her flowery

train;

While buds were tossing in the breeze beneath a deep blue

sky

And pleasure's chant was in his ear, ere he had gone to die!

Youth, too, was his-its morning hour-its sunlight for his

brow

Its phantoms shone, for him to chase, in giddy round, but

now;

Perchance the glee of his young heart—the glancing of his eye

Hath been upon another shore, beneath a brighter sky:

The night-tones have no tales to tell-no history to unfoldThe tall, sere grass, that waves alone, in sadness o'er his

mould

These speak not-deep in dreamless rest, the peaceful sleeper

lies;

There is no pang to rend his heart,-no grief to dim his eyes!

Perchance, in halcyon hours of Youth, a transient dream of love

Came to his brain while earth was joy, and heaven was light above;

When his soul was fill'd with gladsome thought—and in idolatry

He bow'd him to that holy shrine, which in our youth we see ; A star above life's troubled scene-a gleam upon its waveA ray, whose light is soon eclipsed, in the darkness of the grave;

A song, which like the mirthful tone of wild birds on the wing,

Dies when the dewy even-tide enshrouds a sky of spring!

I know but this-Death's shadows dwell upon his deep-seal'd eye;

Vainly earth laughs in joy for him, or the blue summer-skyThe gales may tell where flowers repose, or where the young buds swell;

Their soft chant may not enter here, within this voiceless cell

Flowers, dreams, and grief, alike are past—and why should man reply,

When life is but a wilderness whose promise soon may die"T is but a home, where all must sleep-change, which to all

must come

A curtain, which o'er ALL must spread its deep, o'ershadowing gloom!

The wail of the expiring year is in the deep brown woodsThe leaf is borne upon the stream, in its dark solitudes :The clouds are on the chasten'd hills-the floods are wild and

high

The mournful pall is lingering, where faded blossoms lie:Then here should monitory thoughts be treasured in the breast

That life is but a changeful hour-and Death, a holy rest, Where grief's loud wail or bursting tears ne'er to its stillness come;

But silence reigns within its hall, wrapp'd in its shrouded home!

EXTRACT FROM A NEW YEAR ADDRESS.

COME to my soul, thou Spirit of the Lyre!
'Tis the deep, cloudy midnight; and the wail
Of the cold wind is on its strings of fire,
And on the far hills, rising, dimly pale!
Ah! wake thy murmurs on the troubled gale-
Pour the sad requiem o'er the dying year-
Give to man's thoughtful eye a passing tale
Of days departed, bright as beauty's tear,
Or summer's festal sky, ere autumn clouds drew near!

From the dark sepulchre of years gone by,
A deeply mournful voice is murmuring,

"Where are the dreams of old !--the spirit high
Mounting like eagles on the fearless wing?

Where is the pride of that luxuriant spring,

Which pour'd its light on Rome-on Babylon?

-The wreaths of Time around their temples cling

Their halls are dust!-the gold of Chaldee won

Where sails the bittern's wing, when the bright day is done!

Even thus with the past year;-its morn was gay-
Sweet flowers were on the earth's green bosom springing-
And streaming sunlight bless'd the sky of May,
Where early birds their joyous way were winging,
A dream of love to youth's fresh spirit bringing;
And all was gladness o'er the laughing earth :—
To the tall oak the sunny vine was clinging—
And sending echoes, e'en to home and hearth,

The sweet blue streams, set free, pour'd out a voice of mirth!

Then came the summer's prime-its long, bright day-
With garniture of wood, and field, and stream—