What wert thou, maid?-thy life-thy name Oblivion hides in mystery;

Though from thy face my heart could frame A long romantic history.

Transported to thy time I seem,

Though dust thy coffin covers— And hear the songs, in fancy's dream, Of thy devoted lovers.

How witching must have been thy breath—
How sweet the living charmer—
Whose every semblance after death
Can make the heart grow warmer!

Adieu, the charms that vainly move
My soul in their possession-
That prompt my lips to speak of love,
Yet rob them of expression.

Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised
Was but a poet's duty;

And shame to him that ever gazed
Impassive on thy beauty.

SENEX'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL IDOL.

PLATONIC friendship at your years,
Says Conscience, should content ye:
Nay, name not fondness to her ears,
The darling's scarcely twenty.

Yes, and she'll loathe me unforgiven,
To doat thus out of season;
But beauty is a beam from heaven,
That dazzles blind our reason.

I'll challenge Plato from the skies,
Yes, from his spheres harmonic,
To look in M-y C—'s eyes,
And try to be Platonic.

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.

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,
Ringdove's notes are discord to
The music of her speech.

Artists! Margaret's smile receive,

And on canvass show it;

But for perfect worship leave
Dora to her poet.