Ah! these were bright and joyous hours, When youth awoke from boyhood's dream, To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers, While young hope bask'd in morning's beam! And proffer'd thanks to heaven above, While glow'd his fond and grateful breast, Who spread for him that scene of love And made him, so supremely blest! That scene of love!--where hath it gone? Where have its charms and beauty sped? My hours of youth, that o'er me shone-- Where have their light and splendour fled? Into the silent lapse of years-- And I am left on earth to mourn: And I am left to drop my tears O'er memory's lone and icy urn! Yet why pour forth the voice of wail O'er feeling's blighted coronal? Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail, I shall be gather'd in my pall; Oh, my dark hours on earth are few-- My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;-- And I shall soon bid life adieu, To seek enduring joys in heaven! THE WIFE'S SONG. BY WILLIAM LEGGETT. As the tears of the even, Illumined at day By the sweet light of heaven, Seem gems on each spray; So gladness to-morrow Shall shine on thy brow, The more bright for the sorrow That darkens it now. Yet if fortune, believe me, Have evil in store, Though each other deceive thee, I'll love thee the more. As ivy leaves cluster More greenly and fair, When winter winds bluster Round trees that are bare. LAMENT. BY WILLIS G. CLARK. There is a voice, I shall hear no more-- There are tones, whose music for me is o'er; Sweet as the odours of spring were they,-- Precious and rich--but they died away; They came like peace to my heart and ear-- Never again will they murmur here; They have gone like the blush of a summer morn, Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne. There were eyes that late were lit up for me, Whose kindly glance was a joy to see; They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart, Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art; Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring When birds in the vernal branches sing; They were filled with love, that hath passed with them, And my lyre is breathing their requiem. I remember a brow, whose serene repose Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose: And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile, As I mused on their eloquent power the while, Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain With raptures, that never may dawn again; Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed-- Alas! for the doom of the early dead! Alas! for the clod that is resting now On those slumbering eyes--on that faded brow; Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom-- For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb; Their melody broken, their fragrance gone, Their aspect cold as the Parian stone; Alas for the hopes that with thee have died-- Oh loved one!--would I were by thy side!