The leaf hath fallen! E’en the withered leaf; and from the trees Hath faded Nature’s robe of living green; While, thro’ their naked boughs the wintry breeze, Makes mournful music o’er the vanished scene— The funeral requiem of those blushing flowers, That bloomed and flaunted in the sunny air, When the coy spring-time and her laughing hours, The graceful monarchs of the season were. The song is hushed! And gone those warblers for a softer clime, Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymn Made the gay summer but a trysting time, And prayerful music poured aloft to Him! No more they usher, with their mellow song, The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud— Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng, Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud. The brook is frozen! The babbling streamlet sparkles now no more In the full glory of the sun’s warm beam; The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er, And sleep is brooding on the modest stream. There are no flowers on its frozen side— The sun shines only with a cheerless glance: Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride, Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance. Lancaster, Pa. January, 1841. * * * * * THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER. BY J. ROSS BROWNE. Part I. One who dothe hymself professe to be the teller of a hystorye, must often be contente to doe that whych in annye other character he would be ashamed to owne to. He must unryddle thoughts, telle tales, spake of factes done pryrilye and not for worldlye showe. _A Legende of the Monasterye of Lylis._ When life ceases to afford us gratification, we not unfrequently take a strange delight in reviewing and pondering over the misdeeds of the past, and in anticipating the weird and desolate future. This revelling in the consequences of our own depravity; this spirit of darkness and recklessness; this tendency to a defiance of all moral and religious consolation—when morality and religion no longer dwell within us—may be termed the wreck of hope, and life, and salvation; for as the mariner, engulphed by the tempest, faces death in boisterous revelry, so we seek to riot in our own wickedness, and plunge into perdition, rejoicing in the sin, and reckless of its consequences. Even while I write, the recollection of deeds which might well cause the blood to curdle and the flesh to crawl, thrills me with an awful and savage delight. The open gates of hell are ready to receive me, but I rejoice in anticipating the hour of eternal ruin!