VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.

My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have written "strange defeature" there.

And Time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall.

And Error, gilding worse designs,

Like speckled snake that strays and shinesBetrays his path by crooked lines.

My scalded eyes no longer brook

Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look.

Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book!

KIRKE WHITE.

THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder-tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful, and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest-trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT.

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT.

COME, Disappointment, come!

Not in thy terrors clad;
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,

Yet Meditation, in her cell,

Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell,

That tells her hopes are dead;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here!

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!

A little sun, a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain.

And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)

Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

Oh, what is Beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies;

Will the cold earth its silence break,

To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek

Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er Beauty's fall;

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

The most belov'd on earth

Not long survives to-day;

So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

Then, since this world is vain,

And volatile, and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys

Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,

And cares and sorrows eat?

Why fly from ill

With cautious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?

Come, Disappointment, come!

Thou art not stern to me;

Sad monitress! I own thy sway,

A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee.

From sun to sun

My race will run;

I only bow, and say, My God, Thy will be done!

ALLSTON.

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

ALL hail! thou noble land,

Our Fathers' native soil!
O, stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore!
For thou with magic might
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright

The world o'er!

The Genius of our clime,

From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the guest sublime;

While the Tritons of the deep

With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.
Then let the world combine,—

O'er the main our naval line
Like the milky-way shall shine
Bright in fame!

Though ages long have past

Since our Fathers left their home,

Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravelled seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!

And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame

Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?