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That we pictured as bright,

And we found as frail too, As the gossamer's web

With its garlands of dew.

All the glitter that dazzled,

The newness that won, Fade away from our reason,

Like clouds from the sun; As the angel of truth,

Growing bright through our tears, Shows the world but a desert,

When sorrow appears.

Our childhood is fleet,

As a dream of the night; And youth fades anon,

Like the flower in sunlight: And manhood soon ripens

As corn for the flail ; And age drops to dust,

Like the leaves on the gale.

Thus, year after year,

Life's enchantments decay ;
The glow of the spirits,

So buoyantly gay,
Is chilled by unkindness,

Or chastened by woe,
Till man finds his paradise

Darkened below.

But man has a spirit

The world cannot bind,
That mounts to the stars,

And leaves darkness bebind;
Where the voices we loved

Breathe a holier sound,
And the faces we look for,

Again may be found !

THE HISTORY OF A LIFE.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Day dawned. Within a curtained room,
Filled to faintness with perfume,
A lady lay, at point of doom.

Day closed. A child had seen the light.
But for the lady fair and bright-
She rested in undreaming night!

Springs came. The lady's grave was green,
And, near it, often-times was seen
A gentle boy with thoughtful mien.

Years fled. He wore a manly face,
And struggled in the world's rough race,
And won, at last, a lofty place.

And then! He died l- -Behold before ye
Humanity's poor sum and story ;-
Life-Death-and (all that is of) Glory!

THE LOVE OF OTHER DAYS.

MRS, NORTON.

'Tis past! we've learned to live apart;

And with a faint and gradual ray, All hope hath faded from my heart,

Like sunset on an autumn day. Forgetful of these hours of pain, They tell me I shall love again.

Perhaps I may! we laugh at jests

Some buried friend at random made : Peace steals within our grieving breasts,

As sunbeams pierce the forest shade : We learn to fling all mourning by~ Even that which clothed our memory!

Therefore I do believe this woe.

Like other things, will fade and pass ; And my crush'd heart spring up and blow,

Like flowers among the trodden grass : But ere I love, it must be longThe habits of the heart are strong.

Ere my accustomed eye can seek

In some new, unfamiliar face,
The smile that glow'd upon thy cheek,

And lent thine eye a softer grace,
When in the crowd I turned to thee,
Proud of thy certain sympathy:

Ere my poor ear, that hath been used

To live upon thy angel voice ;
Its daily sustenance refused,

And forced to wander for a choice,
Can listen to some other tone,
Aud deem it welcome as thine own :

Ere the true heart thou couldst deceive,

Can hope, and dream, and trust once more, And from another's lips believe

All that the lips so falsely swore, And hear those vows of other years Without a burst of bitter tears :

Ere I have half my mind explain'd

To one who shares my thoughts too late ; With weary tongue, and spirit pain'd,

And heart that still feels desolateHave travell'd through those by-gone days, Which madę life barren to my gaze :

What years must pass ! in this world's strife,

How small will be my portion then : The fainting energies of life

Will scarcely serve to love again. Love! to the pale, uncertain flame, The fervent god denies his name.

No! let no'wrong'd heart look to mine :

Such fate the wanderer hath in store, Who worships at a ruin'd shrine,

Where altar-fires can burn no more ;

Vain is the incense-vain the prayerNo deity is lingering there!

Ohl never more shall trust return,

Trust, by which love alone can live: Even while I woo, my heart shall yearn

For answers thou wert wont to give, And my faint sighs shall echoes be Of those I breathed long since to thee!

TO JUNE.

LEIGH HUNT.

May's a word 'tis sweet to hear,
Laughter of the budding year ;
Sweet it is to start and say
On May-morning, “This is May!"
But there also breathes a tune,
Hear it-in the sound of “ June."
June's a month, and June's a name,
Never yet hath had its fame;
Summer's in the sound of June,
Summer, and a deepen'd tune
Of the bees, and of the birds ;
And of loitering lovers' words :
And the brooks that, as they go,
Seem to think aloud, yet low;
And the voice of early heat,
Where the mirth-spun insects meet ;

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