TIME'S CHANGES.

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There was a Man, a wary Man,
Whose bosom nurs'd full many a plan
For making life's contracted span

A path of gain and gold;

And how to sow, and how to reap,
And how to swell his shining heap,
And how the wealth acquired to keep
Secure within its fold.

There was an old, old, grey-hair'd One,
On whom had fourscore winters done
Their work appointed, and had spun
His thread of life so fine,

That scarce its thin line could be seen,
And with the slightest touch, I ween,
'T would be as it had never been,

And leave behind no sign.

And who were they, those five, whom Fate
Seem'd as strange contrasts to create,

That each might in his different state
The others' pathways shun?

I tell thee that, that Infant vain,

That Boy, that Youth, that Man of gain,

That Grey-beard, who did roads attain

So various, they were One!

NEELE.

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THE WREATH.

THE WREATH.

TO A FRIEND ON A BIRTH-DAY.

LET others sing the rich, the great,
The victor's palm, the monarch's state,
A purer joy be mine-

To greet the excellent of earth,

To call down blessings on thy worth,
And for the hour that gave thee birth,
Life's choicest flowers entwine.

And lo! where smiling from above,
(Meet helpmate in the work of love,)

O'er opening hill and lawn,

With flowerets of a thousand dyes,

With all that's sweet of earth and skies, Soft breathes the vernal dawn.

Come! from her stores we 'll cull the best

Thy bosom to adorn;

Each leaf in livelier verdure drest,

Each blossom balmier than the rest,

Each rose without a thorn;

Fleet tints, that with the rainbow died, Brief flowers, that withered in their pride,

Shall, blushing into light, awake

And kindlier bloom for thy dear sake.

And first-though oft, alas! condemned,
Like merit to the shade-

THE WREATH.

The Primrose meek, with dews begemmed,

Shall sparkle in the braid:

And there as sisters side by side,

(Genius with modesty allied,)

The Pink's bright red, the Violet's blue,
In blended rays, shall greet our view,
Each lovelier for the other's hue.

How soft yon Jasmine's sunlit glow,
How chaste yon Lily's robe of snow,
With Myrtle green inwove,
Types, dearest, of thyself and me-
Of thy mild grace and purity,
And my unchanging love;
Of grace and purity, like thine,
And love, undying love, like mine.

In fancifully plumed array,

As ever cloud at set of day,

All azure, vermeil, silver-gray,

And showering thick perfume,
See! how the Lilac's clustered spray
Has kindled into bloom,

Radiant, as joy, o'er troubles past,

And whispering, "spring is come at last!"

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Blest flowers! There breathes not one unfraught

With lessons sweet and new;

The Rose, in Taste's own garden wrought;

The Pansy, nurse of tender thought;

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THE WREATH.

The Wall-flower, tried and true;
The purple Heath, so lone and fair,
(O, how unlike the world's vain glare !)
The Daisy, so contently gay,

Opening her eye-lids with the day;
The Gorse-bloom, never sad or sere,
But golden-bright,

As gems of night,

And fresh and fragrant all the year;
Each leaf, each bud, of classic lore,
Oak, Hyacinth, and Floramore;
The Cowslip, graceful in her woe,
The Hawthorn's smiles, the Poppy's glow,
This ripe with balm for present sorrow,
And that, with raptures for to-morrow.

The flowers are culled; and each lithe stem
With Woodbine band we braid-

With Woodbine, type of Life's best gem,
Of Truth that will not fade:

The Wreath is wove; do Thou, blest Power,
That brood'st o'er leaflet, fruit, and flower,
Embalm it with thy love;

O make it such as angels wear,

Pure, bright, as decked earth's first-born pair, Whilst free, in Eden's grove,

From herb and plant they brushed the dew,

And neither sin nor sorrow knew.

WILLIAM PETERS.

TO KATRINAH.

TO KATRINAH.

KATRINAH! feel you not with me
Our years are hurrying on,
And that the sparkle of life's cup
For evermore is gone ?
Already hath the share of time
Marked deeply on my brow,
The furrow that too plainly tells
That youth is over now.

My locks, which once were darkly brown,
Grow grisly now and thin;
Old Age comes stealthily along-

The thievish mannikin!

And in my face he shakes his paw

As he is gliding by,

And snatches with his felon hand

The lustre from my eye.

The honey-moon of life is past

Our days of fun are over-
We may not tread the dance again,

The loved one and the lover!

So, soberly and quietly

We'll sit and count the hours,
Nor deem that we are roving still
Amid life's early flowers.

We plucked the blossoms long ago,
And scattered to the wind

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