Believe you not that in his pain, His agony of soul, Flew o’er the dark engirding main The thoughts which spurn control? Abiding with the cherished ones Who blest a far-off home; O how his sinking spirit yearned To view once more that dome; To hear young voices gayly shout For joy that he had come. He mused how love with pining frame Her grief-fount would exhaust, As on time’s laggard wing there came No tidings of the lost. Ah! who may speak the bitter pangs That exile’s bosom knew. As, day by day, and hour by hour, Faint, and yet fainter, grew The hope that erst had nerved him on His labor to pursue. To ply their wonted task, at length, Refused his weary hands; His form was stretched, bereft of strength. Upon the burning sands. Haply his latest wish besought ’Mong kindred dead to lie; But fate denied the boon, and death Seized him ’neath stranger sky; While mercy drew a mystic veil ’Twixt him and friendship’s eye. * * * * * REMINISCENCES OF A READER. BY THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ. Oh! the times will never be again As they were when we were young, When Scott was writing “Waverlies,” And Moore and Byron sung; When “Harolds,” “Giaours” and “Corsairs” came To charm us every year, And “Loves” of “Angels” kissed Tom’s cup, While Wordsworth sipped small beer. When Campbell drank of Helicon, And didn’t _mix_ his _liquor_; When Wilson’s strong and steady light Had not begun to flicker; When Southey, climbing piles of books, Mouthed “Curses of Kehama;” And Coleridge, in his opium dreams, Strange oracles would stammer; When Rodgers sent his “Memory,” Thus hoping to delight all, Before he learned his mission was To give “feeds” and invite all; When James Montgomery’s “weak tea” strains Enchanted pious people, Who didn’t mind poetic _haze_, If through it loomed a _steeple_.