But the music of young thoughts too soon Is faint, and dies away, And from our morning dreams we wake To curse the coming day. And childhood's frolic hours are brief, And oft in after years Their memory comes to chill the heart, And dim the eye with tears. V. To-day, the forest leaves are green, They'll wither on the morrow, And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long To the widow's wail of sorrow. Come with the winter snows, and ask Where are the forest birds? The answer is a silent one, More eloquent than words. VI. The moonlight music of the waves In storms is heard no more, When the living lightning mocks the wreck At midnight on the shore, And the mariner's song of home has ceased, His corse is on the sea-- And music ceases when it rains In Scudder's balcony. THE RECORDER. THE RECORDER. A PETITION. BY THOMAS CASTALY. Dec. 20, 1828. "On they move In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood Of flutes and soft RECORDERS." _Milton._ "Live in Settles numbers one day more!" _Pope._ My dear RECORDER, you and I Have floated down life's stream together, And kept unharm'd our friendship's tie Through every change of Fortune's sky, Her pleasant and her rainy weather. Full sixty times since first we met, Our birthday suns have risen and set, And time has worn the baldness now Of Julius Cæsar on your brow; Your brow, like his, a field of thought, With broad deep furrows, spirit-wrought, Whose laurel harvests long have shown As green and glorious as his own; And proudly would the CÆSAR claim Companionship with R*K*R'S name, His peer in forehead and in fame.