WHAT DO THE FUTURES SPEAK OF?

IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION IN THE GREEK
GRAMMAR.

THEY speak of never-withering shades,

And bowers of opening joy ;

They promise mines of fairy gold,

And bliss without alloy.

They whisper strange enchanting things

Within Hope's greedy ears;

And sure this tuneful voice exceeds

The music of the spheres.

They speak of pleasure to the gay,

And wisdom to the wise;

And soothe the poet's beating heart
With fame that never dies.

To virgins languishing in love
They speak the minute nigh;

And warm consenting hearts they join,
And paint the rapture high.

In every language, every tongue,
The same kind things they say;
In gentle slumbers speak by night,
In waking dreams by day.

Cassandra's fate reversed is theirs;
She true, no faith could gain,-
They every passing hour deceive,

Yet are believed again.

AUTUM N,

A FRAGMENT.

FAREWELL the softer hours, Spring's opening blush

And Summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe
Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring,
And song of birds, and gay enameled fields,-
Farewell! "T is now the sickness of the year,
Not to be medicined by the skillful hand.
Pale suns arise that like weak kings behold
Their predecessor's empire moulder from them;
While swift-increasing spreads the black domain
Of melancholy Night;—no more content
With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain
On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky.
Farewell the careless lingering walk at eve,

Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay;

And slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth,

His head on flowers, delicious languor feels
Creep in the blood. A different season now
Invites a different song. The naked trees
Admit the tempest; rent is Nature's robe;
Fast, fast, the blush of Summer fades away
From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains

To deck her bosom; Winter follows close,
Pressing impatient on, and with rude breath
Fans her discoloured tresses. Yet not all
Of grace and beauty from the falling year
Is torn ungenial. Still the taper fir

Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly edged
With gold, and many a strong perennial plant,
Yet cheer the waste: nor does yon knot of oaks
Resign its honours to the infant blast.

This is the time, and these the solemn walks,

When inspiration rushes o'er the soul

Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze.

TO THE BARON DE STONNE,

WHO HAD WISHED AT THE NEXT TRANSIT OF MERCURY TO FIND HIMSELF AGAIN BETWEEN MRS. LA BORDE AND MRS. B.

Again a dusky spot appear,

Slow-journeying o'er his splendid sphere :

The stars shall slide into their places,

Exhibiting the self-same faces,

And in the like position fix

As Thursday morning, eighty-six.

But changing mortals hope in vain
Their lost position more to gain;—