But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Iler worshipped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place;—

Then, fare thee well,-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,

That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last.

Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said " Were he ordained to run
"His long career of life again,

"He would do all that he had done."-
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me,
Far otherwise-of time it tells,
Lavished unwisely, carelessly-
Of counsel mocked-of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines,——
Of nursing many a wrong desire,-
Of wondering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star!
All this it tells, and, could I trace

Th' imperfect picture o'er again,

With power to add, retouch, efface,

The light and shades,—the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! Ilow quickly all should melt awayAll, but that freedom of the mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly; And that dear home, that saving ark, Where love's true light at last I've found Cheering within when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!

SONG

Oft in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

The smiles, the tears of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken,

The eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken!

When I remember all
The friends so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one, who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

ON ROUSSEAU.

'Tis too absurd-'tis weakness, shame, This low prostration before FameThis casting down, beneath the car Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, Life's purest, holiest decencies, To be careered o'er, as they please. No,-let triumphant Genius have All that his loftiest wish can crave. If he be worshipped, let it be

For attributes, his noblest, first,Not with that base idolatry,

Which sanctifies his last and worst.

may be cold-may want that glow Of high romance, which bards should know That holy homage, which is felt

In treading where the great have dwelt— This reverence, whatso'er it be,

I fear, I feel I have it not,

For here, at this still hour, to me

The charms of this delightful spot-
Its calm seclusion from the throng,
From all the heart would fain forget-
This narrow valley, and the song
Of its small murmuring rivulet-
The flitting, to and fro, of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once

In Eden, ere the startling words

Of Man disturbed their orisons!-
Those little, shadowy paths, that wind
Up the hill side, with fruit-trees lined,
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas, here and there, that ope

Through weeping-willows, like the snatches. Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope

Even through the shade of sadness catches! All this, which—would I once but lose The memory of those vulgar ties, Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues Of Genius can no more disguise, Than the sun's beam can do away The filth of fens o'er which they play,This scene, which would have filled my heart With thoughts of all that happiest isOf Love, where self hath only part,

As echoing back another's bliss-
Of solitude, secure and sweet,

Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet;
Which, while it shelters, never chills

Our sympathies with human wo,
But keeps them, like sequestered rills,
Purer and fresher in their flow-
Of happy days, that share their beams

"Twixt quiet mirth and wise employOf tranquil nights, that give, in dreams,

The moonlight of the morning's joy !— All this my heart could well on here, But for those hateful memories near,