THE WOOD. COME to the fading wood, Ye youth! of forehead fair, and ringlets bright; Killed by the north-wind rude, That through the boughs prolongs its melancholy sound. Come thoughtful to the wood, Beauty! with downy cheek and sparkling eye! The bloom that mounts thy lip with this compare : Lo, where yon arbour stood, It lent a kiss as sweet, a blush almost as fair! Come to the dripping wood, Love! shield thy quiver 'neath thy golden wing: Hear rain-drops trickling from the withered spray! 'Tis Nature's saddest mood, She weeps, that thy dear smile so soon must pass away. Come to the pensive wood, Come, Pride! and doff thy spangled scarf awhile; 'T will tell thee there's an autumn to thy joys, Nor canst thou curb the flood Time's wave oblivious pours to drown thy worthless toys! Come to the warning wood, Pleasure! oh, hide thy tabor 'midst its leaves; Who, having chanted, fly 'mid milder skies to sport. Come to the faithless wood, Wealth! I would shew thee how thy pleasures flee, And lesson teach to tame thy haughty brow; Oh, be it understood Gold is Potosi's dust- —a gilded shade art thou! Come to the rifled wood, Pale Poverty! and breathe thy fruitless plaint, Shall on thy griefs intrude; — Here thou may'st weep secure, stretched in the chilling shade. Come, Sorrow! to the wood, And with its joyless boughs congenial sigh,— Aye shrouding deep in damp autumnal gloom The swelling heart, that pants for purer worlds to come! Baltimore Gazette. THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. O! BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. my love's like the steadfast sun, Can make my heart or fancy flee Even while I muse, I see thee sit We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet; Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose; All that charms me of tale or song; When words come down like dews unsought, O, when more thought we gave of old 'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er At times there come, as come there ought, A mother's heart shine in thine eye; And proud resolve, and purpose meek, Speak of thee more than words can speak I think the wedded wife of mine The best of all that's not divine! Literary Souvenir. I'M SADDEST WHEN I SING. BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ. You think I have a merry heart The bird will breathe her silver note I'm saddest when I sing! I heard them first in that sweet home And now each song of joy has got Alas! 'tis vain in winter time Of all the friends I used to love, Its faithful voice still seems to be An echo to my own: My tears when I bend over it Will fall upon its string, Yet those who hear me, little think THE HOLIDAY. BY N. T. CARRINGTON. It is a morn of June :-from east to west It is a morn of June:- the gentle Spring Has flown; but shook such freshness from her wing And there are strains from bush, and brake, and bower, O, sweet is such a morn to him who loves The heaven's clear song-the harmonies of groves ;- Or bathes his brow in breezes of the west; On mountain, moorland, seeks Hygeian gales, Or dwells with silence in the fragrant vales. All lovely sounds are with him; lark and bee, Linnet and thrush, unite their melody; |