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The blight of hope and happiness

Is felt when fond ones part, And the bitter tear that follows is

The life-blood of the heart.

When the flame of love is kindled first,

'Tis the fire-fly's light at even, 'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst

In the blue of the summer heaven.
A breath can bid it burn no more,

Or if, at times, its beams
Come on the memory, they pass o'er

Like shadows in our dreams.

But when that flame has blazed into

A being and a power,
And smiled in scorn upon the dew

That fell in its first warm hour, 'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head,

Whose task is to destroy ; 'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead,

Whose light is not of joy!

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,

The infant buds of Love,
And tread his growing fire to earth,

Ere 'tis dark in clouds above ;
Cherish no more a cypress tree

To shade thy future years,
Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be

Quenched only with thy tears.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BYRON. There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes

away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's

dull decay. 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone,

which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself

be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of

happiness, Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt on oceans of excess; The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in

vain, The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never

stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul, like death itself

comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it may not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And, though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the

ice appears.

Tbough wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis

tract the breast, Though midnight hours thal yield no more their former

hope of rest ;

'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey

beneath.

Oh I could I feel as I have felt-or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd

scene:

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish

though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would

flow to me.

TIVOLI.

L. E. LANDON.

Rushing, like uncurbed passion, through the rocks
Which it hath riven with a giant's strength,
Down came the gushing waters, heaped with foam,
Like melted pearl, and filling the dark woods
With thunder tuned to music.

When last I gazed, fair Tivoli,
Upon those falls of thine,
Another step was by my side,
Another hand in mine :
And mirrored in those gentle eyes,
To me thou wert a paradise.

I've smiled to see her sweet lips move,
Yet not one accent hear,
Lost in thy mighty waterfall,
Although we were so near,
My breath was fragrapt with the air
The rose-wreath gave she wont to wear.

How often have we past the noon
Beneath thy pine-trees' shade,
When arching bough, and dark green leaf,
A natural temple made ;
Haunt of some young divinity,
And more than such she seemed to me.

So very fair, oh! how I blest
The gentle southern clime,
That to the beauty of her cheek
Had brought back summer time.
Alas! 'twas but a little while,-
The promise of an April smile.

Again her clear brow turned too clear ;
Her bright cheek turned too bright;
And her eyes, but for tenderness,
Had been too full of light.
It was as if her beauty grew
More heavenly as it heavenward drew.

Long years have past, and toil and care
Have sometimes been to me,
What in my earliest despair
I dreamt not they could be ;
But here the past comes back again,
Oh! why so utterly in vain ?

I stood here in my happy days,
And every thing was fair ;
I stand now in my altered mood,
And marvel what they were.

Fair Tivoli, to me the scene
No longer is what it has been.

There is a change come o'er thy hills,
A shadow o'er thy sky;
The shadow is from my own heart,
The change is in my own eye:
It is our feelings give their tone
To whatsoe'er we gaze upon.

Back to the stirring world again,
Its tumult and its toil ;
Better to tread the roughest path,
Than such a haunted soil :
Oh! wherefore should I break the sleep
Of thoughts whose waking is to weep.

Yes, thou art lovely, but, alas !
Not lovely as of yore,
And of thy beauty I but ask
To look on it no more.
Earth does not hold a spot for me
So sad as thou, fair Tivoli.

LONG AGO!

MRS. NORTON.

Long ago! oh, long ago!

Do not those words recall past years, And, scarcely kuowing why they flow,

Force to the eyes unbidden tears?

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