I placed thee next my throbbing heart, Where soon I hoped to fold The maid of whom alone thou art All I can e'er behold! And often, on the moonlight sea, I've stolen a glance of love at thee, While pleasure's tear-drop rolled To think I should soon cross the main, And meet my love--no, ne'er again! At last our bark return'd once more O'er ocean's heaving breast; And lightly on my native shore My thrilling footsteps pressed: With breathless haste I sought the form That, day and night, through calm and storm, Had been my bosom's guest-- I sought--but ah! the grave had closed Above that form, in death reposed! Dear gift! when now thou meet'st my gaze, What burning thoughts arise! O, how the soul of other days Comes gushing from mine eyes! I do not weep o'er pleasures fled; Nor mourn I that the loved one's dead: But when remembrance flies Back o'er the scenes of early years, In vain would I suppress my tears! I weep--yet scarce know why I weep-- For I would not recall That being from her dreamless sleep-- I would not lift the pall That shrouds her cold and pulseless breast-- No! if a word could break her rest, And give back life, love, all That once made life so bright, so dear, I could not--could not--wish her here! Now let the tempest pour its wrath On my devoted head! The clouds that lower upon my path Cannot disturb the dead: And oh! 'tis something still to know, Howe'er mine eyes with anguish flow, No tears can e'er be shed By her, who, snatched in loveliest bloom, Lies mouldering in an early tomb. Life's burden I have learned to bear, But I would bear alone, Nor have one other heart to share The pangs that rend my own! Yes, yes, loved pledge! where now nay view Is fixed upon the raven hue, It softens sorrow's moan To know--whate'er 'tis mine to brave-- Affliction cannot pierce the grave! TO THE DYING YEAR. BY J. G. BROOKS. Thou desolate and dying year! Emblem of transitory man, Whose wearisome and wild career Like thine is bounded to a span; It seems but as a little day Since nature smiled upon thy birth, And Spring came forth in fair array, To dance upon the joyous earth. Sad alteration! now how lone, How verdureless is nature's breast, Where ruin makes his empire known, In Autumn's yellow vesture drest; The sprightly bird, whose carol sweet Broke on the breath of early day, The summer flowers she loved to greet; The bird, the flowers, Oh! where are they? Thou desolate and dying year! Yet lovely in thy lifelessness As beauty stretched upon the bier, In death's clay cold, and dark caress; There's loveliness in thy decay, Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, Like memory's mild and cheering ray Beaming upon the night of ill.