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Bursting Death's silence--could that mother speak,
When first the earth is heaped upon thy head,
In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak,

She thus might give the welcome of the dead :---
"Here rest my son with me; -the dream is fled;-
The motley mask and the great coil are o’er:
Welcome to me, and to this wormy bed,

Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar
Of earth, and fretting passions waste the heart no more.

"Here rest!-On all thy wanderings peace repose,
After the fever of thy toilsome way;

No interruption this long silence knows;
Here no vain phantoms lead the soul astray:
The earth-worm feeds on his unconscious prey;
Here both shall sleep in peace, till earth and sea.
Give up their dead; at that last awful day,
King, Lord, Almighty Judge! remember me;
And may Heaven's mercy rest, my erring child, on thee!”
Literary Souvenir.

STANZAS.

I never cast a flower away,

The gift of one who cared for me;
A little flower-a faded flower,
But it was done reluctantly.

I never looked a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling, almost pain,
Even from their lifelessness to part.

I never spoke the word "Farewell'"
But with an utterance faint and broken;
An earth-sick yearning for the time,
When it shall never more be spoken.

Blackwood's Magazine.

THERE was a time when I could feel
All passion's hopes and fears;
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,
By smiles, and sighs, and tears!
The days are gone! no more, no more,
The cruel fates allow;

And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,-
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;
I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,
I laugh at girls and boys;
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,
And very fond of noise;

I never wander forth alone

Upon the mountain's brow;

I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone!
I'm not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh;

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,
If I would be gallant;

Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey,

And nieces for their aunt:

I fly from folly, though it flows
From lips of loveliest glow;

I don't object to length of nose,-
I'm not a lover now!

The Muse's steed is very fleet,-
I'd rather ride my mare;
The Poet hunts a quaint conceit,-
I'd rather hunt a hare;

I've learnt to utter yours and you,
Instead of thine and thou;

And, oh! I can't endure a Blue !—
I'm not a lover now!

I find my Ovid very dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill;
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,

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!

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When Laura sings young hearts away,
I'm deafer than the deep;

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 prate of Pitt and Fox;

I ask the price of rail-road shares,
I watch the turns of stocks:

And this is life! no verdure blooms
Upon the withered bough.

I save a fortune in perfumes;

I'm not a lover now!

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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,-
The palace or the plough,-

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;
I'm not a lover now!

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
Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Looked o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark, from India's coral strand,
Before the rushing blast,
Had vailed her topsails to the sand,

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,—
And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away;
The rocks with pearl were sown;
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flashed out o'er fretted stone;

And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze,

And gorgeous robes,-but oh! that shore

Had sadder sights than these!

We saw the strong man, still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside!

Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died!

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