SOLITUDE.

It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan;
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sere and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;

I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sullen wail,

Tell all the same unvaried tale;

I've none to smile when I am free,

And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view, That thinks on me, and loves me too; I start, and when the vision's flown,

IF far from me the Fates remove
Domestic peace, connubial love,
The prattling ring, the social cheer,
Affection's voice, affection's tear,
Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart,
To me your iron aid impart!

O teach me when the nights are chill,
And my fireside is lone and still;
When to the blaze that crackles near,
I turn a tired and pensive ear,
And Nature conquering bids me sigh
For love's soft accents whispering nigh;
O teach me, on that heavenly road,
That leads to Truth's occult abode,
To wrap my soul in dreams sublime,
Till earth and care no more be mine.
Let blessed Philosophy impart

Her soothing measures to my heart;
And while with Plato's ravished ears
I list the music of the spheres,
Or on the mystic symbols pore,
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore,
I shall not brood on summers gone,
Nor think that I am all alone.

FANNY! upon thy breast I may not lie!

Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak! Where art thou, love? Around I turn my eye,

--

And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.

Was it a dream? or did my love behold

Indeed my lonely couch?

-

Methought the breath Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold And hollow, and the livery of death

Invested her pale forehead. Sainted maid!

My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, Through the long wintry night, when wind and

wave

Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore Of better promise; and I know at last,

When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, We two shall meet in Christ—to part no more.

FRAGMENTS.*

"SAW'ST thou that light?" exclaimed the youth, and

paused:

"Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream That skirts the woods it for a moment played.

Again, more light it gleamed, or does some sprite Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams, And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom, As from some bosomed cabin, where the voice

Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness,

Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour?

No sprite deludes mine eyes, - the beam now glows

These Fragments were written upon the back of his mathe matical papers, during the last year of his life.

With steady lustre.

Can it be the moon

Who, hidden long by the invidious veil

That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods?" "No moon to-night has looked upon the sea Of clouds beneath her," answered Rudiger, "She has been sleeping with Endymion."

THE pious man,

In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms
Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith
Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields
Of ether, where the day is never veiled
With intervening vapours, and looks down
Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides

The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;
But on whose billowy back, from man concealed,
The glaring sunbeam plays.

Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray,
Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes;
And from his tower of mist,

Night's watchman hurries down.

THERE was a little bird upon that pile;

It perched upon a ruined pinnacle,
And made sweet melody.

The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear
For other note none swelled the air but his.
It seemed as if the little chorister,

Sole tenant of the melancholy pile,

Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind,

Yet withal cheerful.

I have heard the note

Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn,
-Much musing-

O PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint
Thy melancholy ray:

When the still night's unclouded saint
Is walking on her way.

Through my lattice leaf-embowered,
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam,
And o'er my silent sacred room
Casts a checkered twilight gloom;

I throw aside the learned sheet,

I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,

Or why am I so frail?

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon,

And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd; So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far

From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.