Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns, -
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace

A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain ;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon

Her health! and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

40

H

A PICTURE-SONG

How may this little tablet feign
The features of a face,

Which o'er informs with loveliness,
Its proper share of space;
Or human hands on ivory,
Enable us to see

The charms, that all must wonder at,
Thou work of gods in thee!

But yet, methinks, that sunny smile
Familiar stories tells,

And I should know those placid eyes,

Two shaded crystal wells;

Nor can my soul, the limner's art

Attesting with a sigh,

Forget the blood that deck'd thy cheek,
As rosy clouds the sky.

They could not semble what thou art,

More excellent than fair,

As soft as sleep or pity is,

And pure as mountain-air;

But here are common, earthly hues,

To such an aspect wrought,

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20

That none, save thine, can seem so like
The beautiful of thought.

The song I sing, thy likeness like,

Is painful mimicry

Of something better, which is now

A memory to me,

Who have upon life's frozen sea
Arrived the icy spot,

Where man's magnetic feelings show
Their guiding task forgot.

The sportive hopes, that used to chase
Their shifting shadows on,
Like children playing in the sun,

Are gone

And on a careless, sullen peace,

My double-fronted mind,

Like Janus when his gates were shut,

Looks forward and behind.

Apollo placed his harp, of old,

A while upon a stone,

Which has resounded since, when struck,

A breaking harp-string's tone;

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And thus my heart, though wholly now,
From early softness free,

If touch'd, will yield the music yet,
It first received of thee.

A SERENADE

Look out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light:
Then, lady, up,-look out, and be
A sister to the night!

Sleep not!

thine image wakes for aye

Within my watching breast;

Sleep not! from her soft sleep should fly,

Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay,

With looks whose brightness well might make

Of darker nights a day.

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GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE

THE CLOSING YEAR

'Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now

Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds, The bell's deep notes are swelling. 'Tis the knell Of the departed year.

No funeral train

Is sweeping past: yet on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest,
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred,
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand.

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Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter, with his aged locks-and breathe

In mournful cadences, that come abroad

Like the far wind harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead Year,

Gone from the earth forever.