Ye marvel that one yet so young
Should bear so sad a heart,-

'Tis not in length of days alone
That sorrow claims a part:

The sunny hair, the flashing eye,
Are oft too like the bloom

Of those sweet flow'rs that brightly wave
Above the lonely tomb;

Or those that o'er the ruined wall

A golden halo fling,

Till

ye in gazing e'en forget

They hide so sad a thing.

Oh, not unheeded on my heart

Fall each kind glance and tone! Though reft of hope and happiness, It is not cold-but lone.

I'm sad-I'm very sad to-night,
'Mid scenes of mirth and glee;
For who amid the joyous group

Will e'er remember me ?

They mingle in the busy world,

With its pleasure-seeking throngWho has a thought for one lone heart, One sad, unvalued song?

They would behold my early grave

And reckless pass it o'er,

Nor even think they e'er had known

That humble name before.

No-none will weep when I am laid

On my lone and lowly bier

My memory will never gain

One tributary tear:

For none do love me-though some smile,

And ply the flatt'ring tongue;

Were I at rest, they'd soon forget

Mine, in a sweeter song.

Then marvel not that I am sad

That tears unbidden start;

May ye ne'er feel what 'tis to bear,
Like me, a lonely heart!

HUNTING SONG.

Written for a Polish air.

GAY hunters, away to the chase!

The sun laughs out with his beaming face;
See, he flings from his dazzling head

The sleepy clouds that were round him spread,
And cheerily rouses the blushing morn;
Then welcome him forth with the bugle-horn-

The merry bugle-horn.

To the chase! while the dew shines bright!
Each leaf and flower is bathed in light;

As coronalled thus in their fair array
To greet the morn on her gladsome way!
Let each young zephyr, ere hence he float,
Bear merrily onward our bugle-note-

The merry bugle-note.

Sound the horn! and a softer strain,
O'er vale and hill, is returned again;

For Echo repeats it, 'mid grove and tree,
Waking the birds with its strain of glee,
Who sweetly answer, at early morn,

The cheering voice of the bugle-hornThe merry bugle-horn.

THE SONG OF THE FLOWERS.

SEE, we come dancing in sunshine and showers,
Like fairies or butterflies-bright, young flowers!
O'er vale and o'er mountain, though ever so steep,
Go wander-we'll still on your rambles peep.
Far from the city and smoke live we,

With our neighbour, the rugged old forest-tree,—
Who, wrapped in his mantle of ivy green,

Looks gay,―for his wrinkles are never seen:—
With the zephyrs we dance

'Neath the bright, warm sun;

But the moon's pale glance

Bids our sport be done,

Then we close our petals, nor, winking, peep,

Till the morning breaks our perfumed sleep.