Alone, withdrawn from all the thoughtless throng, I seek in solitude a peaceful hour, Nor deem that others who are gay are wrong, If midst multipled cares they have such power. But I would commune with my heavy heart Beneath the foliage of this lonely bower; Perchance a soothing vision here may start, Or at my feet may rise some tender flower, Refreshing to the wounded spirit’s thirst, Which for the moment I may call my own, Unlike the hopes and buds that gladdened first, And paled and withered ’neath the world’s rude frown. But hope seems vain, for round me sleep the dead, Who quaffed their pleasures, and at last laid down, While all the aims and sweets of life have fled, And twining grass is now their mournful crown. Yet there is something soothing in the air; The thrush sings softly as it flits along; The towering trees shut out the sun’s bold glare, And round my temples breathes the wind’s low song: A katy-did chirps on a marble urn, The distant doves their plaintive moans prolong, And sweet perfumes arise where’er I turn, To woo a wand’rer from a world of wrong. And why should one look further for a grave, And seek vain pomps and plaudits ere he die? Earth’s gold is venom, each great king a slave To some vile passion, and enjoyments fly We know not whither, but they ne’er return; And memory brings but a tear or sigh For moments lost, for bliss we once could spurn, Bright dreams of youth, or friends that buried lie. Under yon willow bending near the brook, Where crystal waters glide the shrubs among— Where a lone mortal, with abstracted look, Is brooding o’er some grief his heart hath stung Methinks that one might bid a last farewell, To all the foes that here his bosom wrung, And like the martyr who, forgiving, fell, Ask no sad requiem o’er his ashes sung. O, in the final and oblivious rest, I would recline beneath such hallowed sod, Where flowers sweet might bloom above my breast, No longer mark for Slander’s pointed rod! And yet a day must come when e’en the dead Will bid adieu to the dark valley’s clod, And all the just, with spotless pinions spread, Shall soar above to their effulgent God! * * * * * GEMS FROM LATE READINGS. * * * * * BY E. L. BULWER.