TO THE MISSISSIPPI.

THINE is a troubled stream!

Born in the darkness of the lonely woods, Where scarce from the bright sun a transient

gleam

Streams through their arcades on thy solitudes; But thy deep waves rush onward to the sea, Meeting at intervals the day's broad light, Save where the cypress-boughs o'ershadow thee,

And thy dim course is through their cloudy night.

Such is the tide of life:

Shadows and sunlight tremble on its wave; Soft gleams of pleasure and a cloud of strife Mark our dim pathway to the silent grave; Joy is our lot in youth, and Hope's blithe voice Pours its sweet song where'er our footsteps be; Flowers that soon wither bid the heart rejoice, Then Time's wave mingles with Eternity!

LINES,

WRITTEN AT AN UNKNOWN GRAVE.

"I know not how, but standing thus by thee,
It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
Thou tomb! and other days come back on me
With recollected music, though the tone
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind !"

Byron.

A MOURNFUL tone the night-air brings above this lonely tomb,

Like thoughts of fair and faded things amid life's changeful gloom;

Deep shadows of the past are here! and Fancy wanders back

When joy woke in this mould'ring breast, now passed from life's dim track:

When hopes made glad his spirit here, as the pure summer-rain

Pours its sweet influence on the earth, with all her flowery train,

While buds are tossing in the breeze beneath a deep-blue sky,

And Pleasure's chant was in his ear, ere he had gone to die!

Youth, too, was his, its morning time, its sunlight for his brow,

Its phantoms shone for him to chase in giddy round, but now;

Perchance, the glee of his young heart, the glancing of his eye,

Hath been upon another shore, beneath a brighter sky;

The night-tones have no tale to tell, no history to unfold;

The tall, sere grass that waves alone in sadness o'er his mould:

These speak not- deep in dreamless rest the peaceful sleeper lies,

There is no pang to rend his heart, no grief to dim his eyes.

Perchance in halcyon hours of youth a transient dream of love

Came to his breast, while earth was joy and heaven was light above,

When his soul was filled with gladsome thought, and in idolatry

He bowed him to that holy shrine which in our youth we see:

A star above life's troubled scene, a gleam upon

its wave,

A ray whose light is soon eclipsed in the darkness of the grave;

A song which, like the mirthful tone of wild-birds on the wing,

Dies when the dewy eventide enshrouds a sky of spring!

I know but this, Death's shadow dwells upon his deep sealed eye;

Vainly earth laughs in joy for him, or the blue summer-sky;

The gales may tell where flowers repose, or where the young buds swell:

Their soft chant may not enter here within this voiceless cell;

Flowers, dreams, and grief, alike are past, and why should man reply,

When life is but a wilderness whose promise soon may die?

'Tis but a home where all must rest-change which to all must come

A curtain which o'er ALL must spread its deep, o'ershadowing gloom!

The wail of the expiring year is in the deep brown woods,

The leaf is borne upon the stream in its dark solitudes;

The clouds are on the chastened hills, and floods are wild and high;

The mournful pall is lingering where faded blossoms lie!

Then here should monitory thoughts be treasured in the breast,

That life is but a changeful hour, and death a holy rest,

Where grief's loud wail or bursting tears ne'er to its stillness come,

But calmness reigns within its hall, wrapt in its shrouded home!