A SONG.

A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;

The frozen wind kept on above,
The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,

And little motion in the air

Except the mill-wheel's sound.

THE WORLD'S WANDERERS,

TELL me, thou star, whose wings of light

Speed thee in thy fiery flight,

In what cavern of the night

Will thy pinions close now?

Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way,
In what depth of night or day
Seekest thou repose now?

Weary wind, who wanderest
Like the world's rejected guest,
Hast thou still some secret nest
On the tree or billow?

A DIRGE.

ROUGH wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;

Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches stain,
Deep caves and dreary main,

Wail, for the world's wrong!

Withered hopes on hopes are spread,

Dying joys choked by the dead,
Will serve your beaks for prey
Many a day.

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

ORPHAN hours, the year is dead,

Come and sigh, come and weep!

Merry hours, smile instead,

For the year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping;
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,

So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold year to-day;
Solemn hours! wait aloud

For your mother in her shroud..

The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days

Rocks the year:—be calm and mild,

Trembling hours, she will arise

With new love within her eyes.

January grey is here,

Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave
And April weeps-but, O, ye hours,

Follow with May's fairest flowers.

January 1st, 1821.