What though he proudly marshals his array Of conquered hearts, still bleeding in his way; Of sighs, of kisses sweet, of glances sly, Playing around some darkly-beauteous eye?

What though the rose of beauty opening wide,
Blooms but for him, and fans his lordly pride?
What though his garden boasts the fairest flower
That ever dew-drop kissed, or pearly shower;

Still, Cupid, I'm no votary to thee;
Thy torch of light will never blaze for me;
I ask no glance of thine, I ask no sigh;
I brave thy fury, and thus boldly fly!

Adieu, then, and for evermore, adieu!
Ye poor entangled ones, farewell to you!
And, O ye powers! a hapless mortal prays
For guidance through this labyrinthine maze.

THE FAMILY TIME-PIECE.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Friend of my heart, thou monitor of youth,
Well do I love thee, dearest child of truth;
Though many a lonely hour thy whisperings low
Have made sad chorus to the notes of woe.

Or 'mid the happy hour which joyful flew,
Thou still wert faithful, still unchanged, still true;
Or when the task employed my infant mind,
Oft have I sighed to see thee lag behind;

And watched thy finger, with a youthful glee,
When it had pointed silently," be free:"

Thou wert my mentor through each passing year; 'Mid pain or pleasure, thou wert ever near.

And when the wings of time unnoticed flew,
I paused, reflected, wondered, turned to you;
Paused in my heedless round, to mark thy hand,
Pointing to conscience, like a magic wand;

To watch thee stealing on thy silent way,
Silent, but sure, Time's pinions cannot stay;
How many hours of pleasure, hours of pain,
When smiles were bright'ning round affliction's train?

How many hours of poverty and woe,
Which taught cold drops of agony to flow?
How many hours of war,* of blood, of death,
Which added laurels to the victor's wreath?

How many deep-drawn sighs thy hand hath told, And dimmed the smile, and dried the tear which rolled?

When the loud cannon spoke the voice of war,
And death and bloodshed whirled their crimson car?

When the proud banner, waving in the breeze,
Had welcomed war, and bade adieu to peace,
Thy faithful finger traced the wing of time,
Pointed to earth, and then to heaven sublime.

Unmoved amid the carnage of the world,
When thousands to eternity were hurled,
Thy head was reared aloft, truth's chosen child,
Beaming serenely through the troubled wild.

Alluding, probably, to the late war scenes at Plattsburgh.— EDITOR.

Friend of my youth, ere from its mould'ring clay
My joyful spirit wings to heaven its way;
O may'st thou watch beside my aching head,
And tell how fast time flits with feathered tread.

ON THE

EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Touch not the heart, for Sorrow's voice
Will mingle in the chorus wild ;'

When Scotland weeps, canst thou rejoice?
No: rather mourn her murdered child.

Sing how on Carberry's mount of blood,
'Mid foes exulting in her doom,
The captive Mary fearless stood,
A helpless victim for the tomb.

Justice and Mercy, 'frighted, fled,

And shrouded was Hope's beacon blaze,
When, like a lamb to slaughter led,
Poor Mary met her murderers' gaze.

Calm was her eye as yon dark lake,
And changed her once angelic form;
No sigh was heard the pause to break,
That awful pause before the storm.

O draw the veil, 't were shame to gaze
Upon the bloody tragedy;

But lo! a brilliant halo plays
Around the hill of Carberry.

'Tis done-and Mary's soul has flown Beyond this scene of blood and death; 'Tis done the lovely saint has gone

To claim in heaven a thornless wreath.

But as Elijah, when his car

Wheeled on towards heaven its path of light, Dropped on his friend, he left afar,

His mantle, like a meteor bright;

So Mary, when her spirit flew

Far from this world, so sad, so weary,
A crown of fame immortal threw
Around the brow of Carberry.

THE DESTRUCTION OF

SODOM AND GOMORRAH.

"And he looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and lo! the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace."

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

O dread was the night, when o'er Sodom's wid, plain The fire of heaven descended;

For all that then bloomed, shall ne'er bloom there

again,

For man hath his Maker offended.

The midnight of terror and woe hath passed by,
The death-spirit's pinions are furled;

But the sun, as it beams clear and brilliant on high
Hides from Sodom's dark, desolate world.

Here lies but that glassy, that death-stricken lake,
As in mockery of what had been there;

The wild bird flies far from the dark nestling brake, Which waves its scorched arms in the air.

In that city the wine-cup was brilliantly flowing,
Joy held her high festival there;

Not a fond bosom dreaming, (in luxury glowing,)
Of the close of that night of despair.

For the bride, her handmaiden the garland was wreathing,

At the altar the bridegroom was waiting,

But vengeance impatiently round them was breathing, And Death at that shrine was their greeting.

But the wine-cup is empty, and broken it lies,
The lip which it foamed for, is cold;

For the red wing of Death o'er Gomorrah now flies,
And Sodom is wrapped in its fold.

The bride is wedded, but the bridegroom is Death,
With his cold, damp, and grave-like hand;
Her pillow is ashes, the slime-weed her wreath,
Heaven's flames are her nuptial band.

And near to that cold, that desolate sea,
Whose fruits are to ashes now turned,
Not a fresh-blown flower, not a budding tree,
Now blooms where those cities were burned.