THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. BY MRS. JOHN HUNTER. How many lift the head, look gay, and smile, WHEN hope lies dead within the heart, "Tis hard to smile, when one could weep; To speak, when one would silent be; To wake, when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony. Yet such the lot by thousands cast, But Nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointment cannot come; And Time guides with unerring feet, The wearied wanderer home. Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. COMPARISON. BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. MARKED you her cheek of roseate hue! A POETICAL SKETCH. THERE is a feeling in his heart, But ever dwells and rankles there:- Nor aught that holy men may say, A sickness of the soul, the balm Of Hope can neither soothe nor slake ;— A glance of fire, a tongue of flame, Nor music's voice disarm A living sense of lasting woe, That poisons every bliss below! It was not always thus.-He danced And snatched at joy where'er it chanced To blossom on his lonely way! Then Hope was young, and bright, and fair,— He knew nor woe nor wasting care, But, innocently gay, Deemed-reckless of the debt it owed'Twould always flow as then it flowed! As Childhood ripened into Youth, Those feelings fled :-he drank the springs Unutterable things,— And wrought, unweariedly, to cull But even then, at times, would roll, That hushed all other sense to sleep; And only waked to weep That man should be cut off from bliss, He loved I will not say how true The faithless tongue perchance might lie ;He did not love as others do, Nor cringe, nor flatter, whine nor sigh! Look on his inmost heart, and trace, What time may deepen, not efface, And warm and glowing stamp it there. His hopes were crushed;-he strove to hide The past, by mingling with mankind; And left the maid he deified Idols elsewhere to find. Now, from Love's sanctuary hurled, Wreck of the past-his future stay- He stands as stands a ruined Tower Which Time in triumph desolates; The ivy wreath that scorns his power, A melancholy gloom creates. What though it shine in light while yet The stone it decorates; So, smiles upon his pallid brow But wring the ruined heart below! B. B. W. SUNSET THOUGHTS. How beautiful the setting sun reposes o'er the wave! The cloudlets, edged with crimson light, veil o'er the blue serene, The heaving sea,—the distant hill, the waning sky,—the woods- Where are the bright illusions vain, that fancy boded forth! Oh! who would live those visions o'er, all brilliant though they seem, Since Earth is but a desert shore, and Life a weary dream! Blackwood's Magazine. THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. THERE is a tongue in every leaf,— A voice that speaketh every where, 'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused I see Him in the blazing sun, I see Him, hear Him, every where, I feel Him in the silent dews, I feel Him in the gentle showers, The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, The sunshine, and the shade. And yet (ungrateful that I am!) I've turned in sullen mood From all these things, whereof He said, When the great whole was finished, That they were 'very good.' |