their extra rejoicings at this
time, seem to wish to make up for their utter neglect of Christmas. We
may be induced to offer a few reminiscences of a sojourn in the north,
at this period, on a future occasion. The extreme beauty of the
following lines on the year that is past, will, we think, prove a
sufficient apology for their introduction here:--

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,