Cover'd with brighter and with fresher flowers;
The trees with greener foliage; and the fields
In garbs more beautiful and lovely clad.

So thou, when the sere Autumn of thy days
Shall come, and Death seize on the crumbling clay,
Bidding thy spirit quit its tenement,—

Shalt rise to worlds of purer beauty, where
No tempests rage, no clouds obscure the sky,
But one unfading Summer decks the scene.

THE SNOW-SPIRIT.

THE Snow-Spirit came from her far Northern home, Where hill, plain and valley forever are white; Where the ice-mountain rears its beautiful dome,

Than diamond more dazzling, than sapphire more

bright;

Where the half-famish'd bear roams proudly around, Fierce tyrant and lord of the desolate heath, Where that giant bird 9 dwells, whose shriek, if it sound

In the murderer's ear, is instantly death!

The Snow-Spirit came, and the swift pinion'd breeze Announc'd her approach with a deep, fitful song, Which swept o'er the mountain, and sigh'd through the trees,

As it hastily flew on its errand along.

At length the loud wind, that so heavily rush'd,
Sunk down to a softer and lonelier hum,

And the creak of the blinds on their hinges was

hush'd

For in beauty and peace the Snow-Spirit come.

The Snow-Spirit came, and the hill which was brown,
By her powerful breath was soon chang'd to white,
And valley and highland, and desert and down,
And forest, as far as could travel the sight,
Were wrapp'd in a robe so dazzlingly pure,

So radiant with splendor, so glistening and bright,
The eye not a moment the scene could endure-
And all was the work of the gentle Snow-Sprite!

The Snow-Spirit comes!—I must hie me away

To the land of the vine-for I love not her power, Since her pathway forever is mark'd by decay,

And my own fate is told by the pale, blighted flower! I'll hie me away to some bright, sunny isle,

Where the forest and meadow forever are green, Where the vineyard and garden unceasingly smile, And the track of the Snow-Spirit never is seen.

THE SETTING SUN.

When the last sunshine of expiring day
In Summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ?—Byron.

THE setting sun, the setting sun!

How sweet, how calm he sinks to rest; What gorgeous dyes he throws upon The clouds that float along the West.

And O how pensive is the hour!

See, how his rays of golden hue Linger on yon old ivied tower,

As loth to bid the scene adieu!

The birds, that in his rising beams
Carroll'd so blithely o'er the glade,
Are silent now; the winding streams,
That joyous on their courses play'd,
Are murmuring, but with sadder noise;

The flower is drooping on its stem,

While with a melancholy voice,
The night-wind sings its requiem!

The setting sun, the setting sun!
There's not a scene so sweet, so dear,

For Sorrow's child to gaze upon,

As this spread out before me here! The dewy flower, the morning bright May please the happy, charm the gay; To me they are a joyless sight

They tell of pleasures past away!

The wither'd leaf, the blighted flower,
Are lovelier than the wreath of green;
And dearer far is twilight's hour,

Than morning's bright and glittering sheen;

And sweeter is the night-wind's tone,
Than all the swelling strains of art;

For mournful sights and sounds alone

Can soothe the worn and blasted heart!

The setting sun, the setting sun!

How sweet he sinks in yonder west!