ach bosom beating high;
And tongues that lisped an infant name,
Now speak in haughty tones of Fame!
While some, in senatorial pride,
With scorn their fellow-man deride;
And others, more sanguinary still,
From words of ire appeal to brands,
Nor scruple a brother's blood to spill--
Cain-like!--with ensanguined hands
Polluting the flowers which smile--in vain
Wooing the heart to love again.

Long o'er this painful scene I sighed,
Where licentious passion, unrestrained,
Was left to riot in her pride--
Spreading destruction where'er she reigned.
"And was this bright--this fair domain--
With all its beauty, formed in vain?
Where Nature, a paradise to grace,
Hath loved her every charm to trace,
That man, enamored of distress
Should mar it into wilderness?"
I raised my arm while thus I spoke,
And o'er Beauty's broken bowers sighed;
But with the effort I awoke,
And found myself by Hela's side.

DEATH AND BEAUTY.

On a lone sequestered mead,
Where silver-streamlets flow,
I saw a rose and lily twine,
And in love and beauty grow;
Again to that lone, peaceful spot,
From worldly cares I hied--
But the flowers that lately bloom'd so fair,
Had wither'd, drooped, and died!

Like love's young dream, they passed away,
With all their vernal bloom,
And they, who lately shone so fair,
Now moulder in the tomb!
But ere the minstrels left the bowers,
And to summer climes had fled,
They sang the dirge o'er fading flowers,
That by their stems lay dead.

Slumbering on its mother's breast
A beauteous infant lay,
The blush upon its dimpled cheek,
Was like a rose in May:
But the glow that tinged that cheek so fair,
Was but the transient bloom,
That brightens with the flitting breath--
A flow'ret of the tomb.

The infant oped its azure eyes,
And sweetly smiling, said,
"Mamma," its gentle spirit ebbing,
Was numbered with the dead;
It laid its throbbing temples on
The mother's heaving breast,
And its gentle spirit pass'd to Heaven,
With angels bright to rest!

Lovely as the morning flowers,
That bloom so fresh and gay,
I saw a beauteous fair one decked
In the bridal's bright array;
But she, who had, at morning rise,
Exulted in her bloom,
Was doom'd ere evening's sun had set,
To grace the silent tomb.

Alas! that things so beautiful,
So soon must pass away,
And all of earth that's loveliest
Must moulder in the clay;
But well we know those charms so bright