In darkness, in eternal space,
    Sightless as a sin-quenched star,
  Thou shalt pursue thy wandering race,
    Receding into regions far—­
  On thee the eyes of mortal men
  Shall never, never light again;
  Memory alone may steal a glance
    Like some wild glimpse in sleep we’re taking. 
  Of a long perish’d countenance
    We have forgotten when awaking—­
  Sad, evanescent, colour’d weak,
  As beauty on a dying cheek.

  Farewell! that cold regretful word
    To one whom we have called a friend—­
  Yet still “farewell” I must record
    The sign that marks our friendship’s end. 
  Thou’rt on thy couch of wither’d leaves,
  The surly blast thy breath receives,
  In the stript woods I hear thy dirge,
    Thy passing bell the hinds are tolling
  Thy death-song sounds in ocean’s surge,
    Oblivion’s clouds are round thee rolling,
  Thou’lst buried be where buried lie
  Years of the dead eternity!

It is needless to add that our old friend will be succeeded in his title and estates by his next heir, eighteen hundred and twenty-nine, whose advent will no doubt be generally welcomed.  We cannot help picturing to ourselves the anxiety, the singularly deep and thrilling interest, which universally prevails as his last hour approaches:—­

  “Hark the deep-toned chime of that bell
    As it breaks on the midnight ear—­
  Seems it not tolling a funeral knell? 
    ’Tis the knell of the parting year! 
  Before that bell shall have ceas’d its chime
  The year shall have sunk on the ocean of Time!”

And shall we go on after this lone hour? no, we will even follow its course, draw this article to a close by wishing our readers, in the good old phrase, “a happy New Year and many of them;” and conclude with them, that

  Our pilgrimage here
  By so much is shorten’d—­then fare thee well Year!

Vyvyan.

* * * * *

ODE TO MORPHEUS.

(For the Mirror.)

  Tell me, thou god of slumbers! why
    Thus from my pillow dost thou fly? 
  And wherefore, stranger to thy balmy power,
    Whilst death-like silence reigns around,
    And wraps the world in sleep profound,
  Must I alone count every passing hour? 
  And, whilst each happier mind is hush’d in sleep,
  Must I alone a painful vigil keep,
  And to the midnight shades my lonely sorrows pour?

    Once more be thou the friend of woe,
    And grant my heavy eyes to know
  The welcome pressure of thy healing hand;
    So shall the gnawing tooth of care
    Its rude attacks awhile forbear,
  Still’d by the touch of thy benumbing wand—­
  And my tir’d spirit, with thy influence blest,
  Shall calmly yield it to the arms of rest,
  But which, or comes or flies, only at thy command!