I gaze upon the thousand stars
That fill the midnight sky;
And wish, so passionately wish,
A light like theirs on high.

I have such eagerness of hope
To benefit my kind;
And feel as if immortal power
Were given to my mind.

I think on that eternal fame,
The sun of earthly gloom,
Which makes the gloriousness of death
The future of the tomb-

That earthly future, the faint sign

Of a more heavenly one;

-A step, a word, a voice, a look,

Alas! my dream is done.

And earth, and earth's debasing stain,

Again is on my soul;

And I am but a nameless part

Of a most worthless whole.

Why write I this? because my heart
Towards the future springs,

That future where it loves to soar
On more than eagle wings.

The present, it is but a speck
In that eternal time,

In which my lost hopes find a home,
My spirit knows its clime.

O! not myself, for what am I?

The worthless and the weak,

Whose every thought of self should raise A blush to burn my cheek.

But song has touched my lips with fire,
And made my heart a shrine

For what, although alloyed, debased,
Is in itself divine.

I am myself but a vile link
Amid life's weary chain;

But I have spoken hallowed words,
O do not say in vain!

My first, my last, my only wish,
Say will my charmed chords
Wake to the morning light of fame,
And breathe again my words?

Will the young maiden, when her tears
Alone in moonlight shine-
Tears for the absent and the loved-
Murmur some song of mine?

Will the pale youth by his dim lamp,
Himself a dying flame,

From many an antique scroll beside,
Choose that which bears my name?

Let music make less terrible

The silence of the dead;

I care not so my spirit last
Long after life has fled.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

THERE is no change upon the air,
No record in the sky :

No pall-like storm comes forth to shroud
The year about to die.

A few light clouds are on the heaven,
A few far stars are bright;

And the pale moon shines as she shines
On many a common night.

Ah, not in heaven, but upon earth,
Are signs of change exprest;
The closing year has left its mark
On human brow and breast.

How much goes with it to the grave
Of life's most precious things?
Methinks each year dies on a pyre,
Like the Assyrian kings.

Affections, friendships, confidence,-
There's not a year hath died
But all these treasures of the heart

Lie with it side by side.

The wheels of time work heavily;
We marvel day by day

To see how from the chain of life

The gilding wears away.

Sad the mere change of fortune's chance,
And sad the friend unkind;

But what has sadness like the change
That in ourselves we find?

I've wept my castle in the dust,
Wept o'er an altered brow;

"Tis far worse murmuring o'er those tears,
"Would I could weep them now!"

O, for mine early confidence,
Which like that graceful tree
Bent cordial, as if each approach
Could but in kindness be!

Then was the time the fairy Hope
My future fortune told,

Or Youth, the alchymist, that turned
Whate'er he touched to gold.

But Hope's sweet words can never be
What they have been of yore:

I am grown wiser, and believe

In fairy tales no more.

And Youth has spent his wealth, and bought

The knowledge he would fain

Change for forgetfulness, and live

His dreaming life again.

I'm weary, weary: day-dreams, years,

I've seen alike depart,

And sullen Care and Discontent

Hang brooding o'er my heart.

Another year, another year,

Alas! and must it be

That Time's most dark and weary wheel
Must turn again for me?

In vain I seek from out the past
Some cherished wreck to save;
Affection, feeling, hope, are dead,-
My heart is its own grave!

HOME.

I LEFT my home;-'twas in a little vale
Sheltered from snow-storms by the stately pines;
A small clear river wandered quietly,

Its smooth waves only cut by the light barks

Of fishers, and but darkened by the shade
The willows flung, when to the southern wind
They threw their long green tresses. On the slope
Were five or six white cottages, whose roofs
Reached not to the laburnum's height, whose boughs
Shook over them bright showers of golden bloom.
Sweet silence reigned around:-no other sound
Came on the air, than when the shepherd made

The reed-pipe rudely musical, or notes

From the wild birds, or children in their play Sending forth shouts of laughter. Strangers come Rarely or never near the lonely place.

I went into far countries. Years passed by,