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By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing ;

Poor, unknown,
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat ;

Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding;
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat ;
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;

There he sat !
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.

(Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year.]

'T is time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move ;
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, The tiowers and fruits of love are gone,

No one sympathizing, no one heeding, The worm, the canker, and the grief, None to love him for his thin gray hair, Are mine alone.

And the furrows all so mutely pleading

Age and care :
The fire that in my bosom preys

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.
Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze,

It was summer, and we went to school,
A funeral pile.

Dapper country lads and little maidens;

Taught the motto of the “ Dunce's Stool," The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

Its grave import still my fancy ladens, The exalted portion of the pain

“ Here's a fool!” And power of love, I cannot share,

It was summer, and we went to school.
But wear the chain.

When the stranger seemed to mark our play, But 't is not here, - it is not here,

Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now I remember well, too well, that day!
Where glory seals the hero's bier,

Oftentimes the tears unbidden started
Or binds his brow.

Would not stay

When the stranger seemed to mark our play. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece about us see ;

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, The Spartan borne upon his shield

0, to me her name was always Heaven ! Was not more free.

She besought him all his grief to tell,

(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Awake! not Greece, she is awake!

Isabel !
Awake, my spirit! think through whom

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.
My life-blood tastes its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Angel," said, he sadly, “I am old ; Tread those reviving passions down,

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;

Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Unworthy manhood ! unto thee,

Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, Indifferent should the smile or frown

Down it rolled !
Of beauty be.

“Angel," said he sadly, “I am old. If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live ?

“I have tottered here to look once more The land of honorable death

On the pleasant scene where I delighted Is here, - up to the field, and give

In the careless, happy days of yore,
Away thy breath!

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted Seek out — less often sought than found

To the core :
A soldier's grave, for thee the best ;

I have tottered here to look once more.
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest !

"All the picture now to me how dear !

E’en this gray old rock where I am seated,

BYRON.

Is a jewel worth my journey here ;

“Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Ah that such a scene must be completed Tracing silently life's changeful story, With a tear !

So familiar to my dim old eye, All the picture now to me how dear !

Points me to seven that are now in glory

There on high! "Old stone school-house! it is still the same ; Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

There's the very step I so oft mounted ; There's the window creaking in its frame,

“Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, And the notches that I cut and counted Guided thither by an angel mother; For the game.

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; Old stone school-house, it is still the same. Sire and sisters, and my little brother,

Gone to God ! “In the cottage yonder I was born ;

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.
Long my happy home, that humble dwelling ;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ;

“ There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling ;

Bless the holy lesson ! -- but, ah, never
Ah, forlorn !

Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
In the cottage yonder I was born.

Those sweet voices silent now forever!

Peaceful days! “Those two gateway sycamores you see

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,

“There my Mary blest me with her hand And the wagon to pass safely under ;

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ninety-three !

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, Those two gateway sycamores you see.

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ;

Broken band ! “There's the orchard where we used to climb There my Mary blest me with her hand.

When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

“I have come to see that grave once more, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather ; And the sacred place where we delighted, Past its prime !

Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, There's the orchard where we used to climb. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted

To the core !
“There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, I have come to see that grave once more.

Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails “Angel," said he sadly, “I am old ;
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising ; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,
Traps and trails !

Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."
There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. In his eye another pearl of sorrow,

Down it rolled ! “There is the mill that ground our yellow grain ; “ Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old.”

Pond and river still serenely flowing; Cot there nestling in the shared lane,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing.

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ;
Mary Jane !

Still I marked him sitting there alone,
There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

All the landscape, like a page, perusing ;

Poor, unknown!
“There's the gate on which I used to swing, By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;
But alas ! no more the mom shall bring
That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing!

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
There's the gate on which I used to swing.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, “I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled.

In my days of childhood, in myjoyfulschool-days; Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying ; I have been laughing, I have been carousing, She is dead !

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; I am fleeing, -- all I loved have fled.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

RALPH HOYT.

I loved a Love once, fairest among women : Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to inuse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child

hood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwell

ing? So might we talk of the old familiar faces.

How some they have died, and some they have

left me,

And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

CHARLES LANIB.

THE BURIED FLOWER.

In the silence of my chamber,

When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean

Mutters in its charınéd sleep,

Oft I hear the angel voices

That have thrilled me long ago, Voices of my lost companions,

Lying deep beneath the snow.

Where are now the flowers we tended ?

Withered, broken, branch and stem ; Where are now the hopes we cherished ?

Scattered to the winds with them.

For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones !

Nursed in hope and reared in love, Looking fondly ever upward

To the clear blue heaven above;

Smiling on the sun that cheered us,

Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness

Save to give it forth again.

.

Severed, were it severed only

By an idle thought of strife,
Such as tine may knit together;

Not the broken chord of life!

O, I fling my spirit backward,

And I pass o'er years of pain ;
All I loved is rising round me,

All the lost returns again.

Brighter, fairer far than living,

With no trace of woe or pain,
Robed in everlasting beauty,

Shall I see thee once again,

By the light that never fadeth,

Underneath eternal skies,
When the dawn of resurrection
Breaks o'er deathless Paradise.

WILLIAM EDMONSTOWNE AYTOUNE.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

AFAR in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years ;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead,
Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon ;
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments by fate or falsehood reft ;
Companions of early days lost or left,
And my native land, whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my

prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young, and the world

was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ;
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone!
And I, a lone exile remembered of none,
My high aims abandoned, my good acts un-

done,
Aweary of all that is under the sun,
With that sadness of heart which no stranger

may scan,
I fly to the desert afar from man.

0, 't is sad to lie and reckon

All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in,

All the words we spoke in truth.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side.,
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and

strife,

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