Yet that is the heart, which was once so light and buoyant; that the cheek, where youth cast its arch and hallowed glow; "that the face that faced so many follies, and was at last outfaced by misery.” When life was in its spring, and naught but roses strewed the path, vice, in her most alluring form, beckoned in the prospect; he followed, and -was undone !

Once more-that mourner in black, who is weeping over the tomb, where all he loved lies sleeping, saw the sun of his manhood beam as brightly as in its earliest dawn. He loved; but it was not blind and maddening passion that revelled in his veins.— He sought for one whose heart, whose every wish might breathe in unison with his; "He never found but one, and-There she lies!"

Such is the "Tale of twenty years hence;" Oh! that the picture may not be realized! Oh! that the rosy smiles that glowed this night may ever spread their silky wings! But Man is the child of Sorrow and Mortality; and till Death has wrapped him in her cold embrace, the tears of woe must inevitably be his portion.

M.

MORNING.

DARKNESS retires, and day returning spreads
Its lucid mantle o'er the mountain heads,

The twinkling stars that beamed their quivering light,

When nature slumbered in the shades of night,
Fade from the view, whilst lonely birds that sing
The dazzling splendour of the day's bright King,
Their gloomy haunts forsake and wing their way,
Where thickets deep exclude the light of day.
Now let me roam to yon tall mountain height,
Whose mist-clad summit breaks upon my sight,
Or let me wander o'er the surge-worn shore,
Where silence reigns and waves forget to roar.
The mists that fell when day declining gave
A reddening lustre to the oceans wave,
Slowly from the hills in glittering streams arise,
And sail in curling wreaths along the skies.
Nought harsh or joyless mingles in the scene,
So calmly sweet so deeply soft serene,
The wakeful cock proclaims with clarion shrill
Approaching day, and each surrounding hill
Responsive echoes to its joyous sound,
And slumbering nature wakens all around.
The lark wild songster pours her note on high,
Poised in the air amid the azure sky.
From yonder cot which clustering trees enclose,
And round whose walls the creeping ivy grows,
Dark curling wreaths of sable smoke ascend,
Through the thick branches which around it bend.
Here weeping willows sip the waters blue,
And creeping woodbines drink the morning dew.
Through the deep shade that yew trees cast around,
From crag to crag
I hear the water's sound.
The shepherd now his flocks in order leads,
To crop the herbage of the verdant meads;

Where scattered round by nature's bounteous hand, Unnumbered flowers adorn the smiling land : Where yellow cowslips hang their dewy heads, And primrose pale its fragrant odour sheds.

Hills, Woods are gladdened by the sun's bright

ray:

Light bursts upon the earth, and all is day!

IMPROMPTU.

THALIA.

MR. EDITOR,

AMONG the many candidates for royal favour, whom the temporary sunshine of the last Coronation blessed with the Knight-hood I was surprised to see one, whose situation in life was scarcely such as to have encouraged him to aspire so high. Mr. Robt. Brightman is a worthy scavenger of London, who has often condescended to collect the sweepings before my door, and to carry off the contents of my Little House; judge then, Mr. Editor, what must have been my astonishment, when passing by his house the other day, I found the letters Mr. erased, and a "Sir," in flaming gold characters, prefixed to a Nightman's signboard. I jogged my friend, Epigrammaticus, to look up, and he, with a degree of humo ur peculiar to himself, made the following Impromptu.

Pray! what's the reason, friend, quoth Joe,
Bob Bright is grown Sir Robert Brightman?
The Reason? Why then don't you know,

These fifteen years he's been a Knight? man!

THIS EVENING HOUR.

SONG.

THIS evening hour, This evening hour,
I love its soft and soothing power;
I love the tale its witchery tells,
Of home and all its magic spells.

I love the languor of this time
That seems to breathe of Arab clime;
While its mellowed odours bring
Hope and Glory on the wing.

And Oh! this hour was made for love,
And all the joys that fond hearts prove;
Its darkling fire and laughing beam,
Are dancing in this evening gleam.

'Tis now the soul of that fond eye, Which first awoke young passion's sigh; 'Tis now it mocks my glancing view, With swimming glance of simper blue.

N

And memory's joys are o'er my soul,
When sinking Phoebus gilds the pole ;
I think on hopes for ever fled,

Of friends that slumber with the dead.

This evening hour- this evening hour,
It tells of beauty's fairest flower;
And oh! I love to think and dream,
As sets to rest the last dark beam.

REMEMBER ME.

Is there a boon my heart may claim,
When severed from thy side?
Is there a gift my lips can name,
Which shall not be denied?

Oh! if there be,-that wish is bound
In one request from thee,—

In one short, soft, endearing sound,
"Tis this: "Remember me!"

I covet not the pomp of state,
-That sediment of care!

I envy not the reprobate

His chalice of despair.

No monumental fame be mine,

But let some cyprus tree

D. S. L.