reflection.  Is memory thus faithful to her trust?  Then how necessary that we should improve each moment, as it glides along into the unbounded ocean of eternity, that it may bear a good record to the future hour.  And, O, how necessary that we should so spend our lives, that when we come to be laid upon our death-bed, in the last agonies of expiring nature, if reason does not forsake her throne, and memory still proves true to her trust, it may bring up the pleasing recollection that life has been well spent.

The Song of the Weary One.

  There is no music in my heart,—­
    No joy within my breast;
  In scenes of mirth I have no part,—­
    In quiet scenes no rest.

  Mine is a weariness of life,—­
    A sickness of the soul;
  An ever constant struggling strife,
    My feelings to control.

  Oh, it was ever—­ever thus,
    From childhood’s earliest hour;
  My spirits ever were weighed down,
    By some mysterious power.

  There seemed some dark, unearthly fate,
    Around my life to twine;
  That which brings joy to other hearts,
    Brings mournfulness to mine.

  And yet I am too proud to weep,
    I never could complain;
  And so they deem my spirit feels
    No weariness or pain.

  They read not in my sunken eye,
    And in my faded cheek. 
  A weight of wretchedness and woe,
    That words could never speak.

  Oh, ’tis a weary—­weary lot,
    To live when joy is gone;—­
  To feel life has no sunny spot,
    Yet still we must live on.

  To mingle with the laughing crowd,
    Yet feel we are alone;
  To know there’s not one human heart
    Can understand our own.

  Oh, Thou, who sitt’st enthroned on high,
    Who every heart can see,
  Look down in pity and in love,
    and take me home to thee.

Lines, Inscribed to a Brother.

  A New Year’s gift I send to thee,
    A volume filled with quaint old rhymes;
  And may it wake the memory
    Within thy heart, of olden times.

  When we by the cheerful fireside hearth,
    Together conned the glowing page,
  Grave themes, and subjects full of mirth,
    Did each by turns our minds engage.

  Oh, then, what rapture filled my heart,
    How throbb’d my brow—­how burn’d my brain,
  As the poet with his magic art,
    Wove the deep mysteries of his strain.

  But now a leaden stupor lies
    Upon my dull, inactive soul;
  In vain my spirit strives to rise,
    From the dark mists that o’er it roll.

  Nor legend old, nor wild romance. 
    Nor fairy tale, nor minstrel lyre,
  Can with their magic power entrance,
    Or one impassion’d thought inspire.

  Thus, like the rosy sunset hues,
    Fade fancy’s pictures from the soul,
  The light that youth’s fair skies imbued,
    Is merged in clouds that o’er us roll.