I know thou art oft

Passed carelessly by,

And the hue so soft

Of thine azure eye

Gleams unseen, unsought, in its leafy bower,
While the heartless prefer some statelier flower,
That they eagerly cull, and, when faded, fling
Away, with rude hand, as a worthless thing.
Not such is thy fate: not thy beauty's gift
Alone bids thee from thy bower be reft;

Not thy half-closing, dewy, and deep-blue eye;
But the charm that doth not with beauty die.
"Tis thy mild, soft fragrance makes thee so dear,
Thou loveliest gem of the floral year!

And with joy, sweet flower,

I welcome thee here,

While dark clouds lour,

And winds sound drear.

The "Christmas Wreath" hath entwined my brow,

But the VIOLET smiles in that chaplet now.

Sweet wand'rer!-gladly I greet thy form

'Mid the loud, shrill blast, and the wintry storm.
Thou callest up visions of happier times-

Thou tellest of sunnier, southern climes-
Thou paintest bright pictures to Memory's eye,
Of bliss-fraught hours for ever gone by-

Thou speak'st of the distant-the lost-the dear ;-
Thine azure is dimmed by a grief-fraught tear;
Yet I will not be sad, for thou tellest to me

Of returning Spring and returning glee.

THE YEAR'S LAST NIGHT;

THE YEAR'S FIRST MORN.

1833-4.

THE last night of the year,-the ebbing year,-
That, like a wave retreating from the strand,
E'en like a wave-so much-no more-retires,
Its short existence o'er, and in the Sea,
The Ocean of the Past, is lost for ever!

The last night of the year!-the bygone year!How many thoughts are crowded in that one! The joy-the bright, the minute-bursts of joy, Of happiness beyond the power of words For utt'rance or description; these return Amid the shadowy spectres of the past, And, as the heart thrills wildly in the dream Of time-devoured bliss-each cherished glance, Cherished by memory—each half-whispered word— Each smile that shone for me alone, returns

In visioned rapture. Real joy fades fleetly,

And mine hath passed away-perchance, for ever!
Like an expiring light, whose fitful gleams
Shine momentarily bright, then sink in gloom-

So transient is joy's gladsome voice to me;
Others around me hear it-revel in it—

Yet I am ever sad.

The dying year!

Its checquered sand is run-grief hath been mine: The sable-coloured grains that slowly fall,

And heavy, leave a furrowed track behind.

Sorrow, and loneliness, and care, and pain,

Each hath the past year poured upon my heart,
Till it was breaking with excess of woe;

And yet I bid it farewell with a sigh,

For some bright hours it gave-but they are gone, The past o'erwhelms them.

"Tis the year's last night!

How many now 'mid pleasure's giddy train,

Exulting in the banquet, dance, and song,

With strange wild merriment and thoughtless glee,

Give hurrying Time new wings, and bid him fly
With tenfold swiftness, though his speed but tend
To hurl them to perdition!

And I have been

Gayest among the gay on such a night!
'Mid the wild mazes of the whirling dance
None with more buoyant exultation flew—

No heart more free from thought or care than mine—
Yet then I deemed it not. No lip then wore
A smile that truer told the joy within-
No eye, that, whether peaceful closed in sleep,
Unbroken then by tears,-or laughing out
Its young and innocent glee-no eye e'er gave
More mirror-like the feelings of a soul.

But changes have come o'er that gleesome girl,—
The eye looks coldly, where it fain would glow
With unrepressed affection and delight;

The lip oft smiles while heaves the breast with grief,
Perchance with anger-scorn-disdain-pride-hate!
The world hath taught that guileless girl such things.