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YELLOW LEAVES.

Age walks amid an alter'd world,
'Mid bustling crowds unknown:
New scenes hath Novelty unfurl'd,
And left the old alone!

"Sere leaves that dangle from Life's tree,"

The old might well have said,

"A relic of the past are we;

A remnant of the dead:
Like emblems of forlorn decay
We linger till the last;

But death's long night shall turn to day,
When Time itself is past!"

MORALITY IN MODERATION.

"TWIXT Wit and Wisdom, Beauty sat;
Both strove to win her favour;
Wit gaily talk'd of this and that,
But Wisdom's tone was graver.

The first, her ear with trifles took;
The second, to advise her,

Said "Take a page from Reason's book,
And grow a little wiser."

"Not now, grave sir:"-return'd the maid;
"For, though I'm fond of reason,
'Tis much like venison, which, 'tis said,

Is only good-in season.

I must not take the leaf, kind sage,
You'll need its consolation;

And I have here a single Page

That better suits the' occasion.

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LINES,

BY A LADY, ON OBSERVING SOME WHITE HAIRS ON
HER LOVER'S HEAD.

THOU, to whose power reluctantly we bend,
Foe to life's fairy dreams, relentless Time,
Alike the dread of lover and of friend,

Why stamp thy seal on manhood's rosy prime? Already twining 'midst my Thyrsis' hair'

The snowy wreaths of age, the monuments of care.

Through all her forms, though Nature own thy sway,
That boasted sway thou'lt here exert in vain :
To the last beam of life's declining day,

Thyrsis shall view, unmoved, thy potent reign,Secure to please, while goodness knows to charm, Fancy and taste delight, or sense and truth inform.

Tyrant, when from that lip of crimson glow,

Swept by thy chilling wing, the rose shall fly; When thy rude scythe indents his polish'd brow, And quench'd is all the lustre of his eye; When ruthless age disperses every grace,

Each smile that beams from that ingenuous face ;—

Then, through her stores shall active Memory rove, Teaching each various charm to bloom anew, And still the raptured eye of faithful love

Shall bend on Thyrsis its delighted view; Still shall he triumph with resistless power,

Still rule the conquer'd heart to life's remotest hour.

THE COUNTRY GIRL.

ON A PICTURE BY HOLMES.

BY W. WORDSWORTH.

THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from Summer's golden skies,
That o'er thy brow are shed;
That cheek-a kindling of the morn,
That lip a rose-bud from the thorn,
I saw; and Fancy sped

To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,
Of bliss that grows without a care;

Of happiness that never flies

How can it where love never dies?
Of promise whispering, where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where Pity to the mind convey'd
In pleasure is the darkest shade,
That time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings
From his smoothly-gliding wings.

What mortal form, what earthly face,
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,
And mingle colours that could breed
Such rapture, nor want power to feed?
For, had thy charge been idle flowers,
Fair damsel, o'er my captive mind,
To truth and sober reason blind,
'Mid the soft air, those long-lost bowers,
That sweet illusion might have hung for hours!
-Thanks to this telltale sheaf of corn,

That touchingly bespeaks thee born,

316

THE COUNTRY GIRL.

Life's daily task with them to share,
Who, whether from their lowly bed
They rise, or rest the weary head,
Do weigh the blessing they entreat
From heaven, and feel what they repeat,
While they give utterance to the prayer
That asks for daily bread.

STANZAS.

BY LORD BYRON.

I HEARD thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear-
Too loved of all to die.

I know not what hath sear'd mine eye;
The tears refuse to start;

But every drop its lids deny
Falls darkly on my heart.

Yes-deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink and turn to care;
As cavern'd waters wear the stone,
Yet dropping harden there ;-
They cannot petrify more fast
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past,
But never melt again.

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