I AM aweary of this world,
I long for days to be,
For the busy men who throng my path
Are all unknown to me.
My friends are sleeping in the dust;
I linger on alone;
Their latest graves are mossed, and grey
Is each memorial stone.
My children and my children's sons
Have from the living passed,
As the leafy branch may be rent away
Though the gnarled trunk doth last.
All generous usage is foregone;
Man's heart has lost its grace,
His very speech is new to me;-
I have out-lived my race.
'Tis so-I am a useless thing,
None reverence my old age,
Useless, save as a chronicle
For the antiquarian sage;
He asks me of the wars I knew
In my young and pleasant day, And of many an old and noble house That has passed into decay :
He asks me of the forest bounds;
Of wise, pure-hearted men;
And sunshine beams upon my soul
As their light comes back again.
Ah, I am weary of this world,
And long for days to be,
For the past is gone, and the present time
Is a joyless time to me!
My outward sight is dim, and dark
All visible things appear;
Yet, often in the sleepless night,
My inward eye is clear.
Alas! I know that in my youth,
When my thoughts were vain and gay, I wot not of the heavenly land,
And knew not where it lay;
But now I see it stretching wide,
With the hill-tops bright and green,
And solemn mountains, old and grey,
And sunny slopes between:
I see the streams, through flowery meads,
Like silver snakes uncurled,
And groves of palm and cedar-wood:
Like those in the ancient world.
I see the people in starry robes,
And my children all I see-
Well may this dim and friendless world
Be a desert place to me!
My ears are dull, I hear not now
The thunder's stormy din,
But the music of the heavenly land
To my soul its way can win:
I hear the merry children's shouts
In the sunshine where they lie;
I hear the tread of their little feet,
As lightly they pass by;
I hear the fall of the mountain rills,
The swell of the distant seas,
The pleasant sound of singing birds,
And the noontide hum of bees.
I hear each voice which since my prime
Has passed in death away;
I hear them speak as they were wont,
Yet I know not what they say:
For their's is not a human speech
That man may learn or tell,
But each tone sinks deep into the soul
By a pleasant miracle.
And oh that I could speak that tongue,
And sit beneath those trees!
For I am weary of this world
With its ceaseless vanities:
And I long, with the children of
On the green hill-tops to be.
Would, that the morrow's sun might rise
In that glorious land to me!
BY PATRICK FRASER TYTLER, ESQ.
THE chilling air and moaning breeze
Strip of their yellow leaves the trees;
The birds have ceased their summer song,
And flowers are none, and nights are long:
O'er the still lake and mountain streams
The icy frost-work shoots, and gleams;
And howling Winter, dark and drear,
Claims the sad relic of the year.
Now were I like a brain-sick fool,
Of every passing cloud the tool,
I ought to feel congenial gloom,
And fill the page with thoughts of doom;
Tell weeping Fancy how she weaves
song amid the falling leaves;
And moralize, with leaden look,
On faded flowers and frozen brook.
But, sooth to say, my present mood
Despises sentimental food;
And fancied griefs, and mimic tears,
And idle sympathetic fears,
Are banished, and forgotten quite,
When she, my heart of hearts' delight!
My only love, my beauteous bride,
Sits smiling sweetly at my side;
And the bright wall and blazing hearth
Warm and attune the mind to mirth.
Yes, dearest! I am blest indeed,
When love like yours hath been my meed ;
And this poor heart must, 'neath the chill
And icy hand of death, grow still,
Ere it can cease to give to thee
A love as strong as thine to me.
BY DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON, ESQ.
THE silent square is formed;—and now they bring One who is lost to fortune and to fame
A youthful soldier. His once honoured name
Is stained for ever. Ah! what feelings wring
His struggling heart! In vain to hide the sting
Of keen remorse, and deep overwhelming shame,
He wears a sterner brow. His spirit's flame
Is early quenched, and never more shall spring
To glory's lofty goal. The word is given
The firmest hand that e'er in battle waved
An unresisted blade, is rudely bound.
Against his blackening flesh the lash is driven
With ruthless force-and yet were lightly braved
But for the soul's immedicable wound!
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