The ransom'd of God shall return to him
With the chorus of joy to an Angel's lay;
With a tear of grief shall no eye be dim,
For sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

WHAT is there sadd'ning in the Autumn leaves?
Have they that "green and yellow melancholy"
That the sweet poet spake of?-Had he seen
Our variegated woods, when first the frost
Turns into beauty all October's charms--
When the dread fever quits us—when the storms
Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet,

Has left the land, as the first deluge left it,
With a bright bow of many colours hung

Upon the forest tops--he had not sigh'd.

The moon stays longest for the Hunter now: The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store: While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along

The bright blue sky above him, and that bends Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, "What is there sadd'ning in the Autumn leaves ?"

WRITTEN IN A

COMMON-PLACE BOOK.

SEE to your book, young lady; let it be
An index to your life-each page be pure,
By vanity uncoloured, and by vice
Unspotted. Cheerful be each modest leaf,
Not rude; and pious be each written page.
Without hypocrisy, be it devout;
Without moroseness, be it serious;
If sportive, innocent: and if a tear
Blot its white margin, let it drop for those
Whose wickedness needs pity more than hate.
Hate no one-hate their vices, not themselves.
Spare many leaves for charity-that flower
That better than the rose's first white bud
Becomes a woman's bosom. There we seek
And there we find it first. Such be your book,
And such, young lady, always may you be.

ON THE LOSS OF

A PIOUS FRIEND.

Imitated from the 57th chapter of Isaiah.

WHO shall weep when the righteous die?
Who shall mourn when the good depart?
When the soul of the godly away shall fly,
Who shall lay the loss to heart?

He has gone into peace-he has laid him down To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day; And he shall wake on that holy morn,

When sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

But ye who worship in sin and shame
Your idol gods, whate'er they be;

Who scoff in your pride at your Maker's name,
By the pebbly stream and the shady tree-

Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams. Bow down in their worship and loudly pray; Trust in your strength and believe in your dreams, But the wind shall carry them all away.

There's one who drank at a purer fountain,
One who was wash'd in a purer flood:
He shall inherit a holier mountain,
He shall worship a holier Lord.

But the sinner shall utterly fail and die-
Whelm'd in the waves of a troubled sea;
And God from his throne of light on high
Shall say, there is no peace for thee.

THE TWO COMETS.

There were two visible at the time this was written; and for the verses, they were, on other accounts, strictly occasional.

THERE once dwelt in Olympus some notable oddities, For their wild singularities call'd Gods and Goddesses.

But one in particular beat 'em all hollow,
Whose name, style and title was Phoebus Apollo.

Now Phoeb. was a genius-his hand he could turn To any thing, every thing genius can learn : Bright, sensible, graceful, cute, spirited, handy, Well bred, well behav’d—a celestial Dandy! An eloquent god, though he didn't say much; But he drew a long bow, spoke Greek, Latin and Dutch;

A doctor, a poet, a soarer, a diver,

And of horses in harness an excellent driver.

He would tackle his steeds to the wheels of the

sun,

And he drove up the east every morning, but one ; When young Phaeton begg'd of his daddy at five, To stay with Aurora a day, and he'd drive.

So good natur'd Phoebus gave Phaey the seat, With his mittens, change, waybill, and stage-horn complete ;

To the breeze of the morning he shook his bright

locks,

Blew the lamps of the night out, and mounted the

box.