TEN YEARS AGO.

By ALARIC A. WATTS.

TEN years ago-ten years ago-
Life was to us a fairy scene;
And the keen blasts of worldly woe

Had sear'd not then its pathway green;
Youth and its thousand dreams were ours-
Feelings we ne'er can know again,-
Unwither'd hopes-unwasted powers,
And frames unworn by mortal pain:
Such was the bright and genial flow
Of life with us, ten years ago!

Time has not blanch'd a single hair,
That clusters round thy forehead now;
Nor hath the cankering touch of care
Left e'en one furrow on thy brow:
Thine eyes are blue as when we met
In love's deep truth in earlier years:
Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet,

Though somewhat stain'd by secret tears;-
But where, oh where's the spirit's glow
That shone through all, ten years ago?

I too am changed--I scarce know why;
I feel each flagging pulse decay,
And youth, and health, and visions high
Melt like a wreath of snow away!
Time cannot, sure, have wrought the ill!
Though now in this world's sickening strife,

In soul and form I linger still

In the first summer month of life;

Yet journey on my path below-
Oh! how unlike ten years ago!

But look not thus, I would not give

The wreck of hopes that thou must share,

To bid those joyous hours revive,

When all around me seem'd so fair!

We've wander'd on in sunny weather,

When winds were low, and flowers in bloom,

And hand in hand have kept together,
And still will keep 'mid storm and gloom,

Endear'd by ties we could not know
When life was young-ten years ago!

Has fortune frown'd? her frowns were vain,
For hearts like ours she could not chill,
Have friends proved false? their love might wane !
But ours grew fonder, firmer still.
Twin barks on this world's changing wave,
Steadfast in calms-in tempests tried-
In concert still our fate we'll brave,
Together cleave life's fitful tide;
Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow,
Youth's first wild dreams-ten years ago!

Have we not knelt beside his bed,

And watch'd our first-born blossom die? Hoped, till the shade of hope had fled, Then wept till feeling's fount was dry? Was it not sweet in that dark hour

To think--'mid mutual tears and sighs-
Our bud had left its earthly bower

And burst to bloom in Paradise?
What to the thought that sooth'd that woe
Were heartless joys-ten years ago!

Yes, it is sweet, when heaven is bright,
To share its sunny beams with thee!
But sweeter far, 'mid cloud and blight,
To have thee near to weep with me;
Then dry those tears-though somewhat changed
From what we were in earlier youth,
Time, that hath friends and hopes estranged,
Hath left us love in all its truth,
Sweet feelings we would not forego

For life's best joys-ten years ago!

THE LAST MAN.

By CAMPBELL.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

His immortality!

1

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan;
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with their dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood.
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sear leaves from the wood,
As if a storm pass'd by:

Saying, "We are twins in death, proud sun!
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go;

For thou, ten thousand thousand years,
Hast seen the tide of human tears

That shall no longer flow.

"What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will!

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day!
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.

"Go! let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recal
Life's tragedy again:

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe,

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe!

"Ev'n I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies
Behold not me expire.

My lips, that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

"This spirit shall return to Him
Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

"Go, Sun! while Mercy holds me up
On nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste;
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality

Or shake his trust in God!

LOVE.

A beautiful passage from BULWER's Richelieu, a Drama.

[ADRIEN DE MAUPRAT and COUNT Baradas.]

BAR.
DE MAU.

(Aloud) Thou lovest. Who, lonely in the midnight tent, Gazed on the watchfires in the sleepless air, Nor chose one star amid the clustering hosts To bless it with the name of some fair face Set in his spirit, as that star in heaven ? For our divine affections, like the spheres, Move ever, ever musical!

You speak

Why, man,

The thoughts of lovers stir with poetry,

As leaves with summer wind. The heart that loves
Dwells in an Eden, hearing angel lutes,

As Eve in the first garden. Hast thou seen

My Julie, and not felt it henceforth dull

To live in the common world, and talk in words

That clothe the feelings of the frigid herd?
Upon the perfumed pillow of her lips-

As on his native bed of roses, flush'd

With Paphian skies-Love smiling sleeps. Her voice, The blest interpreter of thoughts as pure

As virgin wells where Dian takes delight,

Or fairies dip their changelings! In the maze
Of her harmonious beauties, Modesty

(Like some severer Grace that leads the choir
Of her sweet sisters) every airy motion

Attunes to such chaste charm, that Passion holds
His burning breath, and will not with a sigh
Dissolve the spell that binds him! Oh, those eyes
That woo the earth-shadowing more soul than lurks
Under the lids of Psyche! Go!--thy lip
Curls at the purfled phrases of a lover.
Love thou, and if thy love be deep as mine,
Thou wilt not laugh at poets.