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“ 'Tis gold in the city proud,
'Tis gold in the hamlet low,
And the mourner's garb of woe-
“I stood on Nimrod's tower,
When it rose to meet the stars,
Of the world's first conquerors,
Is this the fruit of her latter days,
BY FRANCES BROWN,
Watchers are on the earth ; and o'er the sky
Strange dorkness gathers, like a funeral pall,
Far in the depth of heaven, rekindle all
That arose so glorious on the Alps to-day!
Not thus his wont to leave fair Italy
Night, but not silence, for old Pavia speaks,
As with the voice of unforgotten years,
Such music in the fallen land of fears?
Surviving Roman power and Gothic gold !
The memory of brave battles won of old-
* During the eclipse of the sun which occurred in the end of July, 1844, the citation zens of Pavia assembled in multitudes, in the principal square, for the purpose of witnessing the phenomenon; and in the midst of the deepest darkness, when the moon and stars were plainly visible, the whole concourse burst into one simultanoons shout
Or, hath the gathered city's mighty voice
The queen of night amid her trophies hailed, As conqueror of the sun!
Could she rejoice To see the splendor of his presence vailed, Who walked the heavens in unshared majesty,
Since Time was born, the brightest and the first Of thousand gods :- still glorious on his way,
As when through ancient night his chariot burst, And swept the circuit of those cloudless skies, That yet heard only starry harmonies !
Not so rejoiced the Grecian legions, led
By great Iskander to the Persian shore; No so Ceoropia's host. But days of dread
Are past the twilight of the world is o'er, With all its shadows. Pavia, from thy walls
We hear the spirit of our brighter days Proclaim to Alpine huts and Roman halls,
The morn that met the sage or prophet's gazo, Through the far dimness of that long eclipse, Whose mighty darkness sealed great Galileo's lipa
BY FRANCIS BROWX.
Oh, welcome to the corn-clad slope,
And to the laden tree,
Of nations turned to thee,
With summer's bright career;
Crowned monarch of the year!
That make the roses dim,
And wild bird's harvest hymn;
Thou comest with the might of floods,
The glow of moonlit skies,
Of thousand mingled dyes !
But never seem'd thy steps so bright
On Europe's ancient shore,
That golden age of yore;
Its gladness on the hearth,
Hath reached the peasant's hearth.
O Thou, whose silent bounty flows
To bless the sower's art,
The barvests of the heart
What shall the glory be,
Is gathered home to thee!
FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS.
BY FRANCES BROWN.
Farewelll farewelll bright children of the sun,
Whose beauty rose around our path where'er We wander'd forth since vernal days begun
The glory and the garland of the year. Ye came, the children of the spring's bright promiso
Ye crown'd the summer in her path of light; And now when autumn's wealth is passing from us,
We gaze upon your parting boon, as bright And dearer far than summer's richest hue
Sweet flowers, adieu!
You will return again; the early bearns
Of spring will wake ye from your wintry sleep, By the still fountains and the shining streams,
That through the green and leafy woodlands sweep; Ye will return again, to cheer the bosoms
Of the deep valleys, by old woods o’erhung, With the fresh fragrance of your opening blossoms,
To be the joy and treasure of the youngWith birds from the far lands, and sunny hours,
Ye will return, sweet flowers.
But when will they return, our flowers that fell
From life's blanch'd garland when its bloom was now And left but the dim memories that dwell
In silent hearts and homes! The summer's dew, And summer's sun, with all their balm and brightness,
May fall on deserts or on graves in vain;
What spring can give the sable back again,
Its perish'd bloom once more!
In vain, in vain-years come and years depart
Time hath its changes, and the world its tears; And we grow old in frame, and gray in heart
Seeking the grave through many hopes and fears But still the ancient earth renews around us
Her faded flowers, though life renews no more The bright but early broken ties that bound us,
The garlands that our blighted summers wore: Birds to the trees, and blossoms to the bowers
Return-but not life's flowers !
Thus sang the bard, when autumn's latest gold
Hung on the woods, and summer's latest bloom Was fading fast, as winter, stern and cold,
Came from his northern home of clouds and gloom.