"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fairSorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, "It is there, it is there, my child!"

J. TAYLOR.

To the Moon.

WHAT is that gives thee, mild queen of the night, That secret intelligent grace?

And why should I gaze with such pensive delight
On thy fair, but insensible face?

What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam,
Beyond the warm sunshine of day?
Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream
Where dances thy tremulous ray!

Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrows beguile!
Or grief's fond indulgence suspend?

Yet, where is the mourner but welcomes thy smil And loves thee-almost as a friend?

The tear that looks bright, in thy beam as it flows,
Unmoved dost thou ever behold ;-
The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose,
To thee, oft, in vain, hath been told!

Yet soothing thou art, and for ever I find,
Whilst watching thy gentle retreat,

A moonlight composure steal over my mind,
Poetical, pensive, and sweet!

I think of the years that for ever have fled ;-
Of follies-by others forgot ;-

Of joys that are vanish'd-and hopes that are dead;
And of friendships that were-and are not!

I think of the future, still gazing the while,
As though thou'dst those secrets reveal;
But ne'er dost thou grant one encouraging smile,
To answer the mournful appeal.

Thy beams which so bright through my casement

appear,

To far distant regions extend;

Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear,
And sleep on the grave of a friend.

Then still must I love thee, mild queen of the night,

Since feeling and fancy agree,

To make thee a source of unfailing delight,

A friend and a solace to me.

BOWLES.

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, A heart-sick yearning for the time When it shall never more be spoken.

Lines

SUGGESTED BY THE SIGHT OF SOME LATE
AUTUMN FLOWERS.

THESE few pale Autumn flowers,

How beautiful they are!

Than all that went before,
Than all the summer store,
How lovelier far?

And why they are the last!
The last the last! the last!
Oh! by that little word

How many thoughts are stirred,
That whisper of the past!

Pale flowers! pale perishing flowers,
Ye're types of precious things;
Types of those better moments
That flit, like life's enjoyments,
On rapid, rapid wings.

Last hours with parting dear ones
(That time the fastest spends ;)
Last tears in silence shed;

Last words half uttered;

Last looks of dying friends.

Who but would fain compress
A life into a day,-
The last day spent with one
Who, ere to-morrow's sun,
Must leave us, and for aye!

O precious, precious moments,
Pale flowers! ye're types of those;
The saddest, sweetest, dearest,
Because, like those, the nearest
To an eternal close.

Pale flowers! pale perishing flowers!
I woo your gentle breath;

I leave the summer rose
For younger, blither brows;
Tell me of change and death!

HALE.

The Light of Bome.

My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair,

And thy spirit will sigh to roam;

And thou must go; but

never, when there,

Forget the light of home.

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray:

Like the meteor's flash 'twill deepen the night, When thou treadest the lonely way.

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire :

"Twill burn, 'twill burn, for ever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.