There comes a voice in ev'ry breeze that blows, A warning voice which says, or seems to say, "Mortal, as withers Summer's fragrant rose, "So youth, and strength, and beauty, must decay!"

For thus as Autumn with her bounteous train, To Winter's rigors leaves the mournful year, Will manhood yield to its progressive wane, And death arrest e'en ere we think it near.

Yet shall the winter of old age pass o'er,
And spring return beyond this gloomy scene;
Where only for the virtuous 'twill restore

Fields that ne'er fade, and vales for ever green.

THE FLOWER GIRL.

I'm poor, and my friends are all dead,

Nor mother nor father have I,

Cold charity finds me in bread,

And thus as I wander I

cry,

Sweet lavender!

I'm sad, and no comfort is mine,

I'm tir'd, and no home have to rest,
In sorrow neglected I pine,

No orphan was e'er so distress'd.

Sweet lavender!

N

In vain through the day do I grieve,
While taking my rounds as you see;
The folks that are rich ne'er relieve
Or pity a poor girl like me.

Sweet lavender!

Cold, cold blows the winterly wind,
The heavy rain beats on my head;

Oh, when, in the grave shall I find

A home with my friends that are dead;

Sweet lavender!

Oh, soon let that time come, I

pray,

That time which will happiness bring, When no more with sad heart I shall stray,

When no more with sad voice I shall sing,

Sweet lavender!

TO LAURA.

SAY, Laura, wilt thou never smile, And must thy shepherd sigh in vain, Shall hope his sorrows ne'er beguile, Still must he suffer and complain?

Oh, shall thy Colin, cruel fair!
The bitterness of anguish feel,
And heedless of his tender pray'r,
Wilt thou refuse his woes to heal?

No longer can his tortur'd breast
Such agonizing pangs endure,

And death must hush its griefs to rest,

Since death alone such griefs can cure.

There's nought on earth can ever ease
The torments caus'd by thy disdain;
My heart, consum'd by swift degrees,
Shall break, and never throb again.

Those pleasures which could charm before,
Have now lost all their gay delight;

No pleasures can lost peace restore,
Since, Laura, thou couldst Colin slight.

If to the shades of solitude,
In silence musing, I repair,

A lover's thoughts will soon intrude,
For Laura's image meets me there.

If I attempt, my secret woe
Amidst the busy crowd to lose;

Alas, more keen my tortures grow,
Disdainful Laura still pursues.