And ponder o'er their fleeting charm,
With smiles that tremble into tears.
For never can that charm forsake
The hearts that once its image bear;
Though worn and wasted till they break,
The early passion still is there!
No wonder-for a strange delight
In youth was found in every scene,
And all came alter'd to the sight
Through fancy's magic glass between.
The lonely hill; the shining glade

That sloped to meet the whispering streams;
The solemn wood, whose cavern'd shade
Was peopled with romantic dreams;
The fearful hour of night's midnoon,
When howling storms are passing by;
The brightness of the harvest moon,
And autumn's deep and dreary sigh;
The friends, whose bosoms, warm and true,
Were bright reflections of our own,
Now, dwindled to a mournful few,
Each wandering to the grave alone; .
Return sometimes in all their power

Of pleasure and of pain;

The shadows of that radiant hour

That never comes again.

The new year's day! how clear and bright

It used to draw upon our eye!

Soon as the earliest gleam of light
Was blushing in the eastern sky,
Forth from repose we gaily sprang
To shout into the sleeper's ear;
And all the merry mansion rang
With wishes of a glad new year.
His gift the aged servant took
With gladness in his faded eye;
The teacher smooth'd his weekday look
And laid his birchen sceptre by;

The old unbent their brow the while

To join in childhood's play;

And all things wore their brightest smile

Upon the new year's day.

The Christmas fire! I seem to gaze

Upon its deep and radiant red!

And round the trumpet sounding blaze

I see the evening circle spread.

Though storms are rushing through the heaven, They cannot chill the joyous flow

Of

young affections warmly given

To hearts that answer all their glow.
But soon the voice of mirth subsides;
They talk of darkness and its powers,
Of some mysterious form that glides
In silence through the haunted towers.
And thus with many a fearful tale
They while away the night,

Till every youthful cheek grows pale, With terror and delight.

Scenes of the good old time-the past,
How bless'd the feelings ye inspire!
Around the dreary heart ye cast
The radiance of a winter fire.

I know the coming years will bring
New scenes and sorrows as they roll,
And each will scatter from its wing
A deeper sadness o'er the soul.

But though the present, cold and stern,
May fill the weary eye with tears,
This never failing fire shall burn,
And light us down the steep of years,
Till life's dark path is travel'd through,
And other scenes begin,

More pure and fervent, warm and true,
Than all that once have been.

THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

ITALIA'S vales and fountains!
Though beautiful ye be,
I love my soaring mountains
And forests more than ye;
And though a dreamy greatness rise
From out your cloudy years,
Like hills on distant stormy skies,

Seen dim through nature's tears

Yet more I love the greatness,
Uprising round me here,
Untouch'd by nature's lateness,

So sternly proud and clear!

The light that time flings round a land,
A sacred light may be,

But O it leads not to command,

Like that which crowns the free!

And holy that unfaded light

That lingers with the deadBut then the beams, how passing bright, That fire the path we tread! Then tell me not of years of old, Of ancient heart and clime, Ours is the land and age of gold, And ours the hallow'd time!

The jewel'd crown and sceptre
Of Greece have past away-

And none of all who wept her,
Could bid her glory stay!

The world has shaken with the tread
Of iron-sandal'd crime;

Yet lo! o'ershadowing all the dead
The conqueror stalks sublime-
Then ask I not for crown and plume
To nod above my land;

The victor's footsteps point to doom-
Graves open round his hand!

Rome! with thy pillar'd palaces
And sculptured heroes all,
Snatch'd in their warm triumphal days

To art's high festival

Rome! with thy giant sons of power,

Whose pathway was on thrones