Bursting Death's silence--could that mother speak, She thus might give the welcome of the dead :--- Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar "Here rest!-On all thy wanderings peace repose, No interruption this long silence knows; STANZAS. I never cast a flower away, The gift of one who cared for me; I never looked a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart I never spoke the word "Farewell'" Blackwood's Magazine. THERE was a time when I could feel And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,- Lady, the mist is on my sight; The chill is on my brow; My day is night, my bloom is blight; I never talk about the clouds, I never wander forth alone Upon the mountain's brow; I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone! I never wish to raise a veil, I never tell a tender tale, I never tell a lie; I cannot kneel as once I did; I've quite forgot my bow; I never do as I am bid, I'm not a lover now! I make strange blunders every day, Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey, And nieces for their aunt: I fly from folly, though it flows I don't object to length of nose,- The Muse's steed is very fleet,- I've learnt to utter yours and you, And, oh! I can't endure a Blue !— I find my Ovid very dry, Tom Moore for Mr. Mill: And Belles may read, and Beaux may write, I care not who or how; I burnt my Album Sunday night;— I'm not a lover now! When Laura sings young hearts away, When Leonora goes to play, I sometimes go to sleep; When Mary draws her white gloves out, I never dance, I vow; "Too hot to kick one's heels about!" I'm not a lover now! I'm busy now with state affairs, I ask the price of rail-road shares, And this is life! no verdure blooms I save a fortune in perfumes; I'm not a lover now! A boudoir's babbling fool; The flattered star of Bench or Bar, A party's chief or tool; Come shower or sunshine,--hope or fear,- My heart and lute are broken here; I'm not a lover now! Lady, the mist is on my sight, The chill is on my brow; My day is night, my bloom is blight; Friendship's Offering. THE HOUR OF PHANTASY. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. THERE is an hour when all our past pursuits, The dreams and passions of our early day,— The unripe blessedness that dropped away From our young tree of life,-like blasted fruits, All rush upon the soul: some beauteous form Of one we loved and lost; or dying tone, Haunting the heart with music that has flown, Still lingers near us, with an awful charm! I love that hour,-for it is deeply fraught With images of things no more to be; Visions of hope, and pleasure madly sought, And sweeter dreams of love and purity;The poesy of heart, that smiled in pain, And all my boyhood worshipped--but vain! Literary Souvenir. BY MRS. HEMANS. Her sails are draggled in the brine, That gladdened late the skies; And her pennon, that kissed the fair moonshine, Down many a fathom lies. ALL night the booming minute-gun And bowed her noble mast. WILSON. The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her! We We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer! We saw her proud flag struck that morn, A star once o'er the seas, Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn,— We saw her treasures cast away; And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, And gorgeous robes,-but oh! that shore Had sadder sights than these! We saw the strong man, still and low, Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, |