MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day”—what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,

That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said *. 66 were he ordain'd to run
"His long career of life again,

"He would do all that he had done.". Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells In sober birth-days, speaks to me;

* FONTENELLE.

tout ce que j'ai fait."

"Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferai

Far otherwise-of time it tells,
Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly;

Of counsel mock'd; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire;
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That cross'd my pathway, for his star.-
All this it tells, and, could I trace

The' imperfect picture o'er again,

With pow'r to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,

How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-

All-but that Freedom of the Mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me;

Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd,

And kept till now unchangingly;

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark,

And comfortless, and stormy round!

FANCY.

THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,

That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands, within her own bright round, A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm, that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,

Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST!

YES! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;

And

every smile on my cheek should turn To tears when thou art nigh.

But, between love, and wine, and sleep,

So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!

The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny dearest, thy image lies;

But, ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.

They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright

That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow—
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;

If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.