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Wilt thou not like the other years

That were before thee, disappear?
Why com’st thou with thy dreams and tears,

Thy burdens, melancholy year?
'Tis fit thou too should'st come and go,
For nought unchanging is below.

'Tis fit that all should fade and die,

Yea, Ruin's voice shall shake the spheres;
The yellow leaf that sails on high

The weary date of days and years
Alike pass on and are forgot,
Once here, but now remembered not.

And let them pass, for what but dust

Are wheeling worlds, and what are we?
Creatures, from frailty formed at first,

Yet, linked to an eternity,
When ruined worlds on worlds shall roll
Then lives the disembodied soul.

REMOVAL OF THE REMAINS OF COMMODORE

PERRY TO HIS NATIVE LAND.

Went he not out in proud array,

Wreaths on his youthful brow?
He went from fields of well-won fray

Forth to bid others bow.

He went as the devoted should,

Even at a nation's call;
Why weep that for the brave and good

Is wove the funeral pall ?

Ended the watchful warrior's toil,

His mightiest conflict o'er, Returns he now with glorious spoil,

Unto his native shore: He comes, but not with song and shout,

He comes, and eyes are dim; The muffled drum and fife ring out

Their melancholy hymn. How loftily ran his career,

Let vanquished veterans tell; Briefly, we know by sorrow's tear

'Tis whispered in that knell. Yet for him, leader in the fight,

Freshly survives a name;
Upon his 'scutcheon falls the light

Of high and spotless fame.

Hence!

ye
that

weep o'er blighted bloom, Wailing that youth should die; Hence! his is not the timeless tomb

Where hopes unbudded lie.
0, for the glorious death of them

That live beyond our tears-
O, for the name, the unwasting gem,
That mocks the touch of years!

1826.

TO ONE THAT MEDITATED SUICIDE.

Thou, whom stern anguish wastes away,

Whose sallow cheek is token
That angel-peace makes not her stay

With thee, the lost and broken-
Thou shudderest at the many pangs

That weary ones inherit; Misery, with relentless fangs,

Hath fastened on thy spirit.

Too weak to bear the petty strife

And vanquish by enduring,
Wilt thou a recreant, rush from life,

Remorse, unknown, ensuring?
The secret strings that have their birth

In kindness, wilt thou sever? And snap the cords that link to earth,

Aye, rudely, and forever!

And, rash one! darest thou deface

His tabernacle given,
Whereon is left the matchless grace,

The dignity of heaven?
Exist not ties to bind thee still

To those of thy own nature? Imperious duties to fulfil

Unto thy great Creator?

Bethink thee!-is there not a heart

Whose pulse to thine is beating?

And dost thou not possess a part

In childhood's guileless greeting? Stay thee! a soothing hand is near

To dry the tear that's stealing: And Hope, the bright enchantress, here

Her rainbow is revealing.

'Tis sad, in sorrow's bitter doom

This gay cold world to cumber; Yet who within the sullen tomb,

Uncalled, should seek a slumber? 0, Thou, the framer of my lot,

Who gav'st and who has taken, Do what thou wilt, but leave me not

Thus hopelessly forsaken.

SIMEON'S PROPHECY.

The Temple of the Lord is still,

Forsaken are the golden shrines; Upon Moriah's holy hill

The day-beam of Salvation shines. And hark! a voice along her halls

Is heard, in strains of prophecy: “ Awake, Jerusalem—thy walls

Rebuild, thy glory draweth nigh.

“Now, Israel, shall thy tumults cease,

Up, Judah and with songs adore;

My waiting spirit! go in peace,

Thou hast beheldwhat need'st thou more?” 'Tis Inspiration's awful voice,

The utterance of fleeing breath; The soul recalled to bid rejoice,

When quivering at the gate of death.

Yes, favoured one, 'tis thine to trace

His lineaments who dwelt of old;
Those withered arms, in strong embrace,

The Hope of Israel enfold.
I see thee, man of wintry hairs!

I see the lightning of that eye;
I tremble, while its glance declares

The mystic Godhead passes by.

Thou holy Seer! what visions rise,

In long perspective, on thy soul; Ages of glory meet thine eyes,

And unborn years before thee roll. Who would not die as thou would'st die,

When Light and Life attend the bed? Who would not wish, like thee, to lie

Where blessings crown the faithful dead?

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