Like him I have sought out a solitude Where all around me is unsullied yet, And reared a tenement of words as rude As the first hut on Indian prairies set. O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons tread Their march of storm and sunshine o'er the land, Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head, And sway the soil with high and proud command. And round my verse the better, brighter thought Of beauty and of genius will be placed-- Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught, By manly or by fairy fingers traced. Our fate's the same--the gentle and the proud Will speed their voyage to oblivion's sea, And I shall soon be lost amid the crowd That seek a place within thy memory. THE FADED ONE. BY WILLIS G. CLARK. Gone to the slumber which may know no waking Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell; Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking, In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom, Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath: A seal is set upon thy budding bosom, A bond of loneliness--a spell of death! Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee, And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence, Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. How have the garlands of thy childhood withered, And hope's false anthem died upon the air! Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered, And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even, Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust, Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven, Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust. PROEM TO YAMOYDEN. BY R. C. SANDS.--1820. Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, The last that either bard shall e'er essay! The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, That first awoke them, in a happier day: Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave; And he who feebly now prolongs the lay Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave; His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave! Friend of my youth,[M] with thee began the love Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams, 'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove, O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams; Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, For ever lit by memory's twilight beams; Where the proud dead, that live in storied page, Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.