Beyond the flight of time,-
Beyond the reign of death,-
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath;

Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward and expire!

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown;

A long eternity of love,

Form'd for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere!

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are past away;

As morning high and higher shines

To pure and perfect day:

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

But hide themselves in Heaven's own light.

SONG, FROM FANNY."

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

YOUNG thoughts have music in them, leve

Love And happiness their theme;

And music wanders in the wind
That lulls a morning dream.
And there are angel voices heard
In childhood's frolic hours,
When life is but an April day
Of sunshine and of showers.

There's music in the forest leaves,
When summer winds are there,
And in the laugh of forest girls,
That braid their sunny hair.
The first wild bird that drinks the dew
From violets of the spring,

Has music in his song, and in

The fluttering of his wing.

*

But the music of young thoughts too soon
Is faiut, and dies away,

And from our morning dreams we wake

To curse the coming day,

And childhood's frolic hours are brief,

And oft, in after years,

Their memory comes to chill the heart,
And dim the eye with tears.

To-day the forest leaves are green;
They'll wither on the morrow;

And the maiden's laugh be changed, ere long,
To the widow's wail of sorrow.

Come with the winter snows, and ask

Where are the forest-birds;

The answer is a silent one,

More eloquent than words.

66

EPIGRAM.

FROM LE RAMELET MOUNDI," BY GODELIN.

THE gay, who would be counted wise,
Think all delight in pastime lies;
Nor heed they what the wise condemn,
Whilst they pass time-Time passes

them.

1

SWEEP on, ye winds, my love ye bear

To distant climes, o'er dangerous seas, Where Nature strives, with effort rare,

Man's wild, inconstant mind to please. Rise, favouring zephyrs, rise for her, With watchful care

My fair one bear,

For every wave

Has been the grave

Of some ill-fated Mariner !

Where those watch-towers rise sublime, Those on which the white spray's tost,

There in summer's sunniest time,

There the proudest bark was lost. Long time did Fate her frown defer, But giant strength

Was tired at length,

And every wave

Became the grave

Of some ill-fated Mariner!

U

The sails are spread to catch the wind,
In memory lives my love's last vow;
Adieu! Adieu! to Fate resign'd,
I scorn to weep or murmur now.
May gentle zephyrs rise for her,
And fleetly bear

My faithful fair,

O'er every wave

That marks the grave

Of some ill-fated Mariner!

THE CROW.

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. FROM MANCHESTER POETRY," 1838. W. H. AINSWORTH WAS BORN IN

KING-STREET, MANCHESTER, FEBRUARY 4, 1805.

THE carrion crow is a sexton bold,

He taketh the dead from out the mould,
He delveth the ground, like a miser old,
Stealthily hiding his store of gold.

The carrion crow hath a coat of black,
Silky and sleek, like a priest's, to his back;
Like a lawyer he grubbeth-no matter what way-
The fouller the offal, the richer his prey.