The golden sun outpour'd his gladdening ray, About the full grown flowers-and like a dream Then frown'd the autumnal cloud; the shrouded sky Its multitude of gleams and stars withdrew; The flowers grew pale; and summer-brooks were high, And imaged back no more a heaven of blue ;No moon smiled out upon the evening dew— The squirrel's footstep rustled in the glenThe red leaves fell, and fitful night-winds blew ; And to the bright south-west, away from men, Far, on their glancing plumes, roam'd the wild birds again! But man is changing in the changing year- Mournful and sweet her reveries!-but we start And from lost years unto the present turn Closing from mind's deep cell, the voiceless thoughts that burn! How many dreams have to the dust gone down Witness thou fading and departed year! Since last thy spring enwreathed her flowery crown,— Lo! gentle forms have lain upon the bier, Where thoughtful sorrow pour'd the pensive tear! Death, in all climes, is on his way of fear- ROBERT MORRIS, A NATIVE of Philadelphia. He is the editor of the Philadelphia Album. THE BROKEN HEARTED. I WOULD that thou wert dead, devoted one, And many a sunny hope has thrill'd thy breast, I would that thou wert dead, forsaken girl, So fades at sorrow's touch young beauty's bloom- I would that thou wert dead, for life to thee And storms of fate around thy fortunes lower- Banish'd from him thine every thought employs, I would that thou wert dead, devoted one, EBENEZER BAILEY. Oh, who that knew thee then, can see thee now, I would that thou wert dead, and sanctified- The lingering stealth of pale disease has wrought- And thou shalt haste to meet him with a smile; It is in vain thy gentle sisters grieve, Thy soul shall soon flee by each starry isle, Thou soon shalt die, sweet martyr, and the earth With cypress leaves around thy tomb shall wave- For her who soon shall prematurely die, For her whose seraph form shall moulder there- EBENEZER BAILEY, now Principal of the His prize ode, recited Is a native of Newbury in Massachusetts, and was graduated at Yale College in 1817. He is Young Ladies' High School in Boston. at the Boston Theatre in 1825, is the only performance by which he is known to the public as a poet. He has, however, produced a great number of poetical effusions of high merit, which have obtained anonymously a wide circulation in our various repositories of fugitive verse. If Mr Bailey had written with a view to distinction, he might at this moment have been one of the most popular and esteemed poets of our country. The Triumphs of Liberty is a chaste and spirited production, superior to anything of the kind which our national anniversaries have called forth. His lighter pieces are thrown off with an ease and playfulness of fancy that we do not often see equalled in the hasty rhymes of a leisure moment. THE TRIUMPHS OF LIBERTY. vale, SPIRIT of freedom, hail !— From cliff to cliff thy jocund song,- We feel thy influence, Power divine, Whose angel smile can make the desert shine; For thou hast left thy mountain's brow, And art with men no stranger now. Where'er thy joyous train is seen Disporting with the merry hours, Nature laughs out, in brighter green, To heaven the choral anthem springs,— Exult and mingle, as they glow, In such harmonious ecstacies as play'd, When earth was new, in Eden's light and shade. But not in peaceful scenes alone Thy steps appear, thy power is known. And man awakes, for ages bound In leaden lethargy of mind: He wakes to life-earth's teeming plains Rejoice in his control; He wakes to strength!—and bursts the chains See, on the Andes' fronts of snow EBENEZER BAILEY. Go on, victorious Bolivar! Oh! fail not-faint not-in the war Go on, resistless as the earthquake's shock, And Greece, the golden clime of light and song, To arts and arms and godlike story,— The Crescent wanes before the car And Freedom's banners wave upon Ye hail the name of Washington; pursue But should your recreant limbs submit once more Like gods on earth,—if o'er their hallow'd graves Again their craven sons shall creep as slaves, When shall another Byron sing and bleed For you!-oh, when for you another Webster plead! Ye christian kings and potentates, Say, do ye idly hope to bind The fearless heart and thinking mind? Or stop the hymning spheres, ye may control, But what are ye? and whence your power And lord it all alone? What god-what fiend-has e'er decreed, |