Our wo seems arrogant and vain,
Doth it not move their scorn?
Like the poor slave beneath his chain
Pitying the princely born.

We live to meet a thousand foes,
We shrink with bleeding breast,
Why should we weakly mourn for those
Who dwell in perfect rest?
Bound for a few, sad, fleeting years
A thorn-clad path to tread,
Oh! for the living, spare those tears
You lavish o'er the dead.

HARTFORD, Feb. 21, 1832.

TIME'S SONG.-BY MRS. HEMANS

O'er the level plain where mountains
Greet me as I go,

O'er the desert waste where fountains
At my bidding flow,

On the boundless beam by day,

On the cloud by night,

I am rushing hence away!
Who will chain my flight?

War his weary watch was keeping;
I have crush'd his spear;
Grief within her bower weeping;
I have dried her tear;

Pleasure caught a minute's hold-

Then I hurried by,

Leaving all her banquet cold,
And her goblet dry.

Power had won a throne of glory→
Where is now his fame?
Genius said, "I live in story,"
Who hath heard his fame?
Love beneath a myrtle bough,
Whisper'd-"Why so fast?"
And the roses on his brow
Withered as I pass'd.

I have heard the heifer lowing
O'er the wild wave's bed.
I have seen the billow flowing
Where the cattle fed;
Where began my wanderings?
Memory will not say;

Where will rest my weary wings?

Science turns away.

THE USE OF TEARS.
Be not thy tears too harshly chid,
Repine not at the rising sigh;
Who, if they might, would always bid
The breast be still, the cheek be dry?

How little of ourselves we know

Before a grief the heart has felt;
The lesson that we learn of wo
May brace the mind as well as melt.

The energies too stern for mirth,

The reach of thought, the strength of will, 'Mid cloud and tempest have their birth, Through blight and blast their course fulfil.

Love's perfect triumph never crown'd
The hope unchequered by a pang ;
The gaudiest wreath with thorns are bound,
And Sappho wept before she sang.

Tears at each pure emotion flow-
They wait on Pity's gentle claim,→→
On Admiration's fervid glow,-
On Piety's seraphic flame.

"Tis only when it mourns and fears
The loaded spirit feels forgiven;

And through the mist of falling tears

We catch the clearest glimpse of Heaven.

THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT.

FROM THE SPANISH OF HERNANDO DE HERRERA,

Pure spirit! that within a form of clay,

Once veiled the brightness of thy native sky;
In dreamless slumber sealed thy burning eye,
Nor heavenward sought to wing thy flight away!
He, that chastised thee, did at length unclose
Thy prison doors, and gave thee sweet release→→
Unloos'd the mortal coil, eternal peace

Received thee to its stillness and repose.
Look down once more from thy celestial dwelling
Help me to rise and be immortal there,-
An earthly vapor melting into air—

For my whole soul, with secret ardor swelling,
From earth's dark mansion struggles to be free,
And longs to soar away, and be at rest with Thes.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

I would not live alway: I ask not to stay,
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here,
Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer

I would not live alway, thus fetter'd by sin
Temptation without, and corruption within;
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears.

I would not live alway; no-welcome the tomb,
Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom:
There, sweet be my rest, till he bid me arise
To hail him in triumph descending the skies.

Who, who would live alway, away from his God;
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,

Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns:

Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Saviour and brethren, transported to greet;
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul!