A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW

YEAR.

THE more we live, more brief appear

Our life's succeeding stages;

A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals, lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.

But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,

Ye stars, that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we reach the Falls of death,

Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may

be strange-yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding;
When one by one our friends have gone,
And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of Youth, a seeming length,
Proportion'd to their sweetness.

SONG.

How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at Love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing,
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
Other smiles may make you fickle,
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;
Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly,

Bind its odour to the lily,

Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,

Then bind Love to last for ever!

Love's a fire that needs renewal

Of fresh beauty for its fuel;

Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging,
Or the ringdove's neck from changing?
No! nor fetter'd Love from dying
In the knot there's no untying.

MARGARET AND DORA.

MARGARET's beauteous-Grecian arts

Ne'er drew form completer,

Yet why, in my heart of hearts,

Hold I Dora's sweeter?

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue

Pass all painting's reach,

Ringdoves' notes are discord to

The music of her speech.

Artists! Margaret's smile receive,

And on canvas show it;

But for perfect worship leave

Dora to her poet.

THE POWER OF RUSSIA.

So all this gallant blood has gush'd in vain! And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again.

O British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hush'd or meek!

O heartless men of Europe-Goth and Gaul, Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek ;— That saw the world's last land of heroes fallThe brand of burning shame is on you all-allall!

But this is not the drama's closing act!
Its tragic curtain must uprise anew.
Nations, mute accessories to the fact !
That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew
Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you
The lengthening shadow of its head elate—
A deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue.
To all that's hallow'd, righteous, pure and

great,

Wo! wo! when they are reach'd by Russia's withering hate.

Russia, that on his throne of adamant,

Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored:

He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant

His standard fresh; and horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free. Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is pour'd,

Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee, All-all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee.

Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reel'd? O fair occasion, gone for ever by !

To have lock'd his lances in their northern

field,

Innocuous as the phantom chivalry

That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky! Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high; Dig dungeons deep; for Poland's wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command

An awful width! Norwegian woods shall build
His fleets; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane •
The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be till'd
To feed his dazzling, desolating train,
Camp'd sumless, 'twixt the Black and Baltic

main:

Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write,