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The eye no flow'ry vestige sees

Of all the beauty that has been.

With low'ring clouds the skies are spread;
No plumy warblers now are seen;
For each has hush'd his song and fled,
Like vanquish'd joy that once has been !

Rude Winter comes with mantle hoar,
To vent around his ruthless spleen;
The Summer's splendid reign is o'er,
And Nature mourns for what has been!

At times a bright, tho' powerless ray

Through the dull clouds may intervene

But soon, alas! it dies away,

And leaves no trace of what has been.

'Tis thus life's fleeting splendour fades,
And leaves the suff'rer to chagrin ;
He slowly roams through dreary shades,
And still he sighs for what has been.

Prosperity's gay summer sun

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His smile may throw the gloom between ; But soon, his race of glory run,

We weep for bliss that once has been!

Yet there's a steadfast hope for those

That grieve-a hope which well may wean Their care-worn hearts from mortal woes, From bitter thoughts of what has been.

That hope is Heav'n, which still supplies
An anchor firm on which to lean-
Where tears no more shall dim those eyes

That oft have wept o'er what has been.

ODE WRITTEN ON A VISIT TO THE
COUNTRY IN AUTUMN.

LOGAN.

'Tis past! no more the Summer blooms!

Ascending in the rear,

Behold congenial Autumn comes,
The sabbath of the year!

What time thy holy whispers breathe,
The pensive ev'ning shade beneath,
And twilight consecrates the floods;
While Nature strips her garments gay,
And wears the vesture of decay,

O let me wander through the sounding woods!

Ah! well-known streams! ah! wonted groves,
Still pictur'd in my mind!

O sacred scene of youthful loves,
Whose image lives behind!

While sad I ponder on the past,

The joys that must no longer last,

The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier,

The dying music of the grove,

And the last elegies of love,

Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear!

Alas! the hospitable hall,

Where youth and friendship play'd, Wide to the winds a ruin'd wall

Projects a death-like shade!

The charm is vanish'd from the vales;
No voice with virgin-whisper hails
A stranger to his native bowers;

No more Arcadian mountains bloom,

Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume,

The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers!

Companions of the youthful scene,
Endear'd from earliest days!
With whom I sported on the green,
Or rov'd the woodland maze!
Long exil'd from your native clime,
Or by the thunder-stroke of time
Snatch'd to the shadows of despair;
I hear your voices in the wind,
Your forms in ev'ry walk I find,

I stretch my arms :-ye vanish into air!

My steps, when innocent and young,
These fairy paths pursu'd;
And, wand'ring o'er the wild, I sung
My fancies to the wood.

I mourn'd the linnet-lover's fate,
Or turtle from her murder'd mate,
Condemn'd the widow'd hours to wail;
Or, while the mournful vision rose,
I sought to weep for imag'd woes,
Nor real life believ'd a tragic tale!

Alas! Misfortune's cloud unkind
May summer soon o'ercast!
And cruel Fate's untimely wind
All human beauty blast!

The wrath of Nature smites our bowers,
And promis'd fruits, and cherish'd flowers,
The hopes of life in embryo sweeps;

Pale o'er the ruins of his prime,

And desolate before his time,

In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps!

Relentless Power! whose fated stroke
O'er wretched man prevails!
Ha! Love's eternal chain is broke,
And Friendship's cov'nant fails!
Upbraiding forms!-a moment's ease-
O Memory! how shall I appease

The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost!
What charm can bind the gushing eye?
What voice console th' incessant sigh,

And everlasting longings for the lost?

Yet not unwelcome waves the wood,
That hides me in its gloom,
While lost in melancholy mood,
I muse upon the tomb.

Their chequer'd leaves the branches shed;
Whirling in eddies o'er my head,

They sadly sigh that Winter's near;

The warning voice I hear behind,
That shakes the grove without a wind,

And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year.

Nor will I court Lethean streams,
The sorrowing sense to steep;
Nor drink oblivion of the themes
On which I love to weep.
Belated oft by fabled rill,

While nightly o'er the hallow'd hill
Aerial music seems to mourn;
I'll listen Autumn's closing strain;
Then woo the walks of youth again,

And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely urn!

WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS.

HON. W. R. SPENCER.

WHEN the black-letter'd list to the Gods was presented,

(The list of what Fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind Goddess relented, And slipp'd in three blessings, Wife, Children, and Friends.

In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated, For Justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,

For Earth becomes Heav'n with Wife, Children, and Friends.

The Soldier whose deeds live immortal in story,
Whom duty to far-distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory,
For one happy day with Wife, Children, and
Friends.

Though valour still glows in life's waning embers, The death-wounded tar who his colours defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How blest was his home with Wife, Children, and Friends.

Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover, Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends,

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