And there, for an hour, we our fortune will try ;

It is time to be gone,

For the day will soon dawn,

And the cloud reddens now with the tints of the morn.

It is waiting us there,

And our troop it must bear

On a cool, pleasant sail through the pure morning air. See, the coming of day,

We must not delay;

Up! through the blue ether! up, up, and away!

And now, the old mill

May go on, if it will,

Or fold up its wings, for a while, and be still.

1839.

SONNET.

ILLUSTRATING A PICTURE.

BY JAMES HOPPIN.

Now bright beneath them gleamed the sunlit vale,
And just discerned, the cot from whence they passed,
When stayed the creaking wheels, and slow and pale
Stepp'd forth the sorrowing emigrants, to cast

Upon the home they left, one gaze,—the last.

The grandsire shaded with his trembling hand

The dim eye, strained upon the roof he reared;

The son but looked, and bowed himself, unmanned,

Upon his horse's neck, whose rough breast shared
His master's agony ;-unlike the rest

The wife gazed tearless, and her infant son
Folded in silence to her tranquil breast,

As though she felt wherever doomed to roam,
With him and with his sire-there would be home.

FADED FLOWERS.

BY SARAH H. WHITMAN.

REMEMBRANCERS of happiness! to me

Ye bring sweet thoughts of the year's purple prime, Wild, mingling melodies of bird and bee

That pour on summer winds their silvery chime And of rich incense, burdening all the air,

From flowers that by the sunny garden wall Bloomed at your side,-nursed into beauty there By dews and silent showers; but these to all Ye bring. Oh! sweeter far than these the spell Shrined in those fairy urns for me alone,

For me a charm sleeps in each honied cell

Whose power can call back hours of rapture flown, To the sad heart sweet memories restore,

Tones, looks and words of love that may return no more

341

THE FORSAKEN WIFE.

BY GEORGE W. PATTEN.

"T IS past the hour of evening prayer!
What lonely watch is mine!

I hear thy step upon the stair-
No-no--it is not thine;

'T was but a sound the tempest made,
Along the moaning balustrade.

What Circean spells-what Syren charms

What words of secret art :

Thus keep thee from my longing arms,

Oh partner of my heart?

And am I not thy chosen bride,

Who-what can take thee from

my

side?

Soft words may fall from lips refined-
From eyes, soft glances shine:

But 'mid the crowd thou may'st not find,

A heart that loves like mine!

The very tear thy coldness brings
Seems welcome-since for thee it springs.

Have I not smil'd when thou wert gay?
Wept-did thy look reprove-

Lov'd thee as woman sometimes may,
As man can never love!

All this-yea more-'twas mine to give ;—

And unrequited—yet I live!

Yet thou didst once with accents bland,

Beside me bend the knee :

And swear, in truth this little hand,
Was more than worlds to thee!
This jewell'd hand,-what is it now?
The token of a broken vow!

Oh love! How oft the bridal ring,
Binds fast its golden tie:

To make the heart a slighted thing,.

You pass unheeded by

The charm is broke-the spell is gone-
And conscious woman weeps alone!

SONNET.

BY WILLIAM J. HOPPIN.

(Suggested by the late disgraceful transactions in Florida.)

SAY it in whispers, that the sons of those
Who fought beside our Fabius, Washington,
Inheriting a glory, which was won

By honorable port to friends and foes,

Should fling away their birth-right, and enclose
In a vile ambush that undaunted one,

Who yielded to their treachery alone.

The arm their valour did not dare oppose !
Hush! for the Dead at Lexington who sleep,

The Forlorn-Hope of Freedom must not hear
That our degenerate hands, to which they gave
Truth's spotless banner, all unstained to keep,

And in her mighty vanguard to uprear, Have left it buried in a half-breed's grave! 1838.

TO THE TRAILING ARBUTUS FOUND BLOOMING THROUGH THE SNOW.

BY SAMUEL W. PECKHAM.

I FOUND thee smiling 'mid surrounding gloom,
While yet the whistling winds their revels kept,
And nature in the embrace of winter slept ;
Ere spring's sweet songsters had began to plume
Their airy wings: 't was then thy modest bloom
From underneath the mouldering foliage crept,
And, as around thy frosty bed I stepped,
The spotless snow seemed almost to assume

A crimson tint, reflected from thy blush;
And as I gazed, thy modest beauty gave

My heart a lesson, and the prayer did gush That thus I might death's chilling influence brave, And that, like thee, my parting soul might flush With cheerful light the darkness of the grave.