MY BIRTHDAY.

MOORE.

"My birthday"-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white the 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, "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 birthdays speaks to me; 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 desireOf 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 power 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 twined, 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!

THE CHANCE SHIP.

WILSON.

How beautiful upon the wave
The vessel sails, that comes to save!
Fitting it was that first she shone
Before the wondering eyes of one,
So beautiful as thou.

See how before the wind she goes,
Scattering the waves like melting snows!
Her course with glory fills

The sea for many a league !-Descending,
She stoopeth now into the vale,

Now, as more freshly blows the gale,

She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills. Oh, whither is she tending?

She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay;
As for her crew, how bless'd are they!
See how she veers around!

Back whirl the waves with louder sound;
And now her prow points to the land:
For the Ship, at her glad lord's command,
Doth well her helm obey.

They cast their eyes around the isle :

But what a change is there!

For ever fled that lonely smile

That lay on earth and air,

That made its haunts so still and holy,
Almost for bliss too melancholy,
For life too wildly fair.

Gone-gone is all its loneliness,
And with it much of loveliness.
Into each deep glen's dark recess,
The day-shine pours like rain,
So strong and sudden is the light
Reflected from that wonder bright,
Now tilting o'er the main.

Soon as the thundering cannon spoke,
The voice of the evening gun

The spell of the enchantment broke,

Like dew beneath the sun.

Soon shall they hear the unwonted cheers

Of these delighted mariners,

And the loud sounds of the oar,
As bending back away they pull,
With measured pause, most beautiful,
Approaching to the shore.

For her yards are bare of man and sail,
Nor moves the giant to the gale;
But, on the ocean's breast,

With storm-proof cables, stretching far,
There lies the stately Ship of War;
And glad is she of rest.

THE MAY-FLOWERS OF LIFE.

A. A. WATTS.

Suggested by the Author's having found a branch of May in a volume of Burns's Poems, which had been deposited there by a Friend, several years before.

MEMORIAL frail of youthful years,

Of hopes as wild and bright as they,
Thy faint, sweet perfume calls up tears
I may not, cannot wish away!
Thy wither'd leaves are as a spell

To bring the sainted past before me ;
And long-lost visions loved too well,
In all their truth restore me.

Cold is her hand who placed thee here,
Thou record sweet of Love and Spring,
Ere life's May-flowers, like thee, grew sere,
Or Hope had waved her parting wing:
When Boyhood's burning dreams were mine,
And Fancy's magic circlet crown'd me;
And Love, when love is half divine,
Spread its enchantments round me!

How can I e'er forget the hour

When thou wert glowing on her breast,
Fresh from the dewy hawthorn bower
That look'd upon the golden west!

She snatch'd thee from thy sacred shrine,-
A brighter fate she scarce could doom thee,-
And bade a poet's wreath be thine,-
His deathless page entomb thee!

That hour is past,-those dreams are fled,—
Ties, sweeter, holier, bind me now;
And, if Life's first May-flowers are dead,
Its summer garland wreathes my brow!
Sleep on, sleep on !-I would but gaze
A moment on thy faded bloom;
Heave one wild sigh to other days,
Then close thy hallow'd tomb!

THE LUTE.

CROLY.

I have seen the scymetar in the Sahib's hand, and the sceptre in the Rajah's; I have seen the one rusted and the other broken. And I have seen the lute ring over the graves of the Sahib and the Rajah. Let me then take the lute, and with it win thee. Bengalee Poem.

THE masters of the earth have died,
Their kingly strength is dust and air!
Within their breasts of fire and pride,

The worm has made his quiet lair.
I feel the world is vanity,

And take my lute and sing to thee,