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have been mentioning; but how, at the sunset of life, coming events cast their shadows before,” is a mystery too abstruse for our mundane faculties. It is equally impossible, we suspect, even to conjecture, with any degree of plausibility, whether these premonitions result from any internal consciousness, or external agency; -~from some latent power of the mind suddenly called into action, or from the immediate influence of that Mighty Being, of whom it is only an emanation. Be this as it may, we have adduced a sufficient number of proofs to answer all the purposes of our argument; and to set our thinking readers reflecting on a subject of great, and most interesting importance.

R.

HOME

When on the last far height, we pause to throw
A parting look upon our home below,
And gaze in silence on the peaceful bow'rs
That gave their shelter to our happier hours ;
While, through the twilight of the past, flit by
Its shadowy forms, to Memory's musing eye,
How long, ere from the summit of the hill
We turn the foot that there would linger still!
And when that scene sinks down its ridge behind,
Do they too set,—the visions of the mind ?
Ah, no! the winds may waft, the billows bear
To other lands, but they will haunt us there-
The shadows of the past, that round us grow
More deep, as life's declining sun is low.

In all its wanderings still the heart is true
To that lov'd scene where its young feelings grew ;
E’en when its wither'd hopes around it fall,
Like faded wreaths in some forsaken hall,
Still o'er the waste of sorrow unforgot,
Green and unfading blooms that hallow'd spot;
Its memory steals along life's sullen stream,
As breaks o'er clouded seas the setting beam.

Though brighter lands beyond the ocean lie,
And softer scenes there woo the raptur'd eye ;
Yet, to the Pilgrim's heart they cannot bring
The charm that breath'd in youth, from each fair thing,
Around the haunts where pass'd his infant hours,
When life and feeling seem'd to dwell in flow'rs;
A voice in every breeze; in leaves that hung
Upon the waving woods, a whispering tongue ;
When heaven and earth seem'd join'd, the skies to rest

On ocean's margin, and the mountain crest ;
VOL. II. NO. VII.

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When, in the silent night, his infant glance
Vas cast in wonder on the blue expanse,
And gazing on the stars, so bright and fair,
He wish'd, e'en then, for wings to waft him there.
With tiny hands stretch'd upwards to its dome,
E'en then the heart hath sigh'd for its high home,
And wept for other worlds, ere yet its tear
Was shed o'er sorrows all undreamt of here ;
Ere yet it knew, that, launch’d on life's rough wave,
Its bark must drift to that dark port, the Grave!

Thou who in foreign lands hast lonely stray'd,
'Midst Nature's scenes of solitude and shade,
Know'st when the winds had wafted some sad strain,
How from oblivion broke the past again :
Seem'd not a voice to hail thee from that shore,
That home, perchance, revisited no more,
Save when in dreams, beyond the power of Fate,
The soul flies there like wild-bird to its mate-
Flies to that far, but unforgotten larid,
Where first upon the eye creation dawn'd-
Where, like sweet flowers, the heart's pure feelings sprung,
Ere yet the weeds of passion round them clung ?
But when the fleeting days of youth depart,
And from their dream awakes thy cheated heart,
Returning home at last, in hopes to meet
That peace the world bestow'd not in retreat,
Once more, in summer's greenest garment drest,
Thy native vale receives thee to its breast.
Oh! hope not for its former joys again,
Though fair as ever all its scenes remain;
Though steals as soft each murmuring stream along,
And sweet as e'er the wild wood's evening song;
There's something sadly changed--the heart, -the heart
That could a charm to all around impart,
E'en to the leaves that whisper'd on the stem,
Deeming that its own sweetness dwelt in them ;
That heard the music of its well-tun'd strings
Flow in the sounds of dead, unconscious things
The heart, indeed, is changed, the spell is gone,
The scene remains, but, ah ! the soul is flown!
The friend of youth is miss'd, and where is he?
That starting tear too well can answer thee-
Yon Sun, that sheds o'er summer seas his beam,
Smiles on his sleep, the sleep without a dream !

But, oh! how sad his fate whom early crimes
Have doom'd to die in far and friendless climes;
Ere yet the heart, to native feelings cold,
Is heedless where its number'd throbs are told;
While rolls 'twixt him and all he loves, the wave
That parts for ever sure as doth the grave!
Ah ! farther severs; for the sod we tread,
Alone divides the living from the dead!
Through the long night, the night of fate and fear,
When drifts the bark upon her dark career,
Far o'er the wintry waters doom'd to roam,
How wakes the memory of our peaceful Home!

How have they sigh’d for that!--the wanderers gone
To brave the terrors of the frigid zone;
To sweep those sullen seas where Winter piles
His snowy mountains and his icy isles;
And shrouds in polar glooms his hoary form,
And from his garner-house sends forth the storm;
Or while the roaring seas are tempest-toss'd,
Bids them be still, and fetters them in frost!-
Perchance e'en now their hapless barks may

be
Chain'd in the bosom of a waveless sea,
While the long night hath clos'd around them there
Like the ail-circling shadow of Despair ;
Or cheer'd at last, perhaps, by distant dawn,
And when in gulfs the ice began to yawn,
With such continuing roar, in masses hurl'd,
As seem'd the thunders of a rending world,
T'he floating fragments each frail bark have crush'd
And hopes and fears for ever deeply hush’d!
No--something whispers they shall yet return,
And hints that they have cross'd the dreary bourne ,
The mystic pass, untraced by man, which Fate
Seem’d to have cles'd with an eternal gate !

Ye links that bend us to our place of birth!
Ye sacred feelings cherish'd at its hearth!
But that your magic makes a desert fair,
Man were a sad and homeless wanderer.
The boundless North, --- earth's regions cold and rude..
Would slumber then one lifeless solitude;
Untrod by him would Switzer's mountains rise;
Unheeded were the strain on which he dies;
Unknown the rapture through his heart that thrills,
Who hails from foreign lands his native hills.

Home! where the morn of life in brightness rose !
Home! where we hope its peaceful eve will close!
Thine are the varied scenes that might beguile
E'en from a Stoic eye the tear and smile.
Oh! when like spring-buds ef the parent tree,
The cherubs hang around the father's knee;
Who but a sire shall speak that purest birth,
That thrills the heart in every infint kiss!
Thine, too, the stolen glance of secret woe,
That sees on Beauty's cheek Consumption's glow-
That rose, whose hue seems of celestial bliss,
Too fair a flower to blossom long on earth;
With sorrow's pang, increasing day by day,
(The ceaseless drop that wears the stone away,)
The lover marks her bright unearthly bloom,
And sees her wedded to an earthly tomb !

What though thy joys and sorrows, deep, not loud,
Touch not the bosoms of the high-born crowd ?
What though to fashion's minions all unknown?
With such a sympathy they'd blush to own,
Whose lives roll on like shallow streams that stray,
With brawl and bubble on their barren way;
With whom a sound can satisfy a sin,
A gorgeous garb redeem the fool within ;

Thine the first friendship, and the earliest love,
That time and distance strengthen, not remove;
And with thy peaceful scenes are closely join'd
The thousand pleasing pictures of the mind,
That bright as stars along a cloudless sky,

Shine through the silent night of inemory! llobart Town, August, 1833.

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There is a pleasing melancholy in pacing the pebbly shore, and gazing on the glassy waters, as the sun is slowly sinking in the western horizon. The musing mind recalls the scenes of passing hours, and the incidents of early life flash vividly on the memory. The stillness of all around forcibly depictures the dying Christian, like the orb of day gloriously sinking into eternity, and can it fail to warn the meditator that ere another sun shall rise to glad the face of Nature, he himself may be cruinbled in the dust. These thoughts, to some, may be apjalling, but for me I have a mind warped to melancholy, darked perhaps by the follies and ingratitude of the world. In my twilight wanderings, the following incident has frequently occurred to my recollection.

It was a splendid morning in the fall of the spring of 1828, when I reached the township of

The fields, covered with the most luxuriant verdure, the trees loaded with the fullest blossom, and the fragrance of flowers, together with a lovely azure sky; tended to impress the mind with the brightest visions. It was a festive day, for the pride of the vale,'--the lovely Ellen-was that day to bestow her hand in wedlock on a youth of the neighbouring district. She was the daughter of a genileman in allluent circumstances, who had emigrated about five years previous, and ihe neatness and comfort of his estate fully betokened the opulence of the owner. From the impediments to travelling, which then existed, there were but few to witness the ceremony, beside thy friends of both parties. My attention was forcibly attracted towards a young man, habited in deep mourning, who, upon enquiry, I ascertained had but recently arrived in the Colony. He was a playfellow of the intended bride and her sister in England, and viewed by them in the light of a brother, for they had none on whom to bestow that tender epithet. His countenance was of a deadly paleness-his dark hair hung negligently over-his forehead -his lip was bloodless and his eye of a glassy lustre, combined with his sable attire, gave him an unusually ghastly appearance. He spoke not, smiled not, and seemed totally lost to the surrounding objects. The hour for departure to the district church now drew nigh, and the fair girl was summoned from her “ tiring room.” She was certainly " the pride of the vale," for though I have traversed many portions of the globe, I have seldom keen one so interesting. Her sylph-like form seemed scarcely to press the earth. Her golden hair flowed in playful ringlets round a neck fair as the glittering snow drop, and her cheek outrivalled the young pomegranate hue. A lovely blush overspread her countenance as she entered; but her eye, resting on the youth whom I have described, a slight tremor pervaded her frame, and the roses of her cheek faded as he advanced to greet her. It was but momentary, for by a seeming effort the color re-animated her cheek, and

She bent on another her bright blue eye,
And a smile played around her mouth,
As soft as the heavenly morning sky,

That dawns in climes of the south. We now proceeded to the church. I felt a sort of interest for the young man in mourning, for I was convinced he was a prey to some inward anguish. I endeavoured to enter into conversation with him, but found it fruitless, and contented myself with narrowly watching his countenance, which was intensely fixed on the intended bride. She met his gaze twice, and again the colour forsook her cheek, and an unbidden tear started in her eye ; and I almost fancied that her apparent gaiety was assumed. The betrothed pair stood before the altar--the ceremony commenced—but how can I depicture the agony of the youth beside me. The large drops rolled down his forehead-he breathed with difțiculty-and as the ceremony concluded, uttering a wild shriek, he fell senseless at my feet. He was borne into the open air, and on baring his bosom, a small gold locket, appended to a blue ribbon, discovered itself. I immediately recognized the hair of the new bride, and the truth flashed upon me. On his recovering, I endeavoured to induce him to accompany me to the cottage, but with a harrowing smile he declined my solicitations, and, with a haughty bend, turned in the direction leading to the ocean.

But there gleamed in his eyes a sepulchral fire;

A wan and unearthly light,
And they gazed, when you gazed, with a steadfastness dire,

As the gazer's soul they'd blight,

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