LINES

WRITTEN IN A SKETCH-BOOK.

How vain to blot this snowy leaf

With human hope or human fear!

How vain to leave, of joy or grief,

A single record here!

And yet, the very lightest dream

That e'er was fancy's cherished theme,

The frailest hope that ever played,

The fleetest thought that ever strayed,

-Arrested in its flight,—

May live upon this page-alone,

The brightest trace-the only one-
Of him who felt its light,—

When all his world of hopes and fears
Is mingled with the flood of years!

Full many a heart, by friendship tried,
Has left an offering on this shrine;

And names that love has sanctified

Along its pages shine!

Yet fancy pauses, with a tear,

Above the little register,

To think that all those hearts have known

A host of feelings of their own,

Which are not written here;

The transient smile, the frequent sigh,

The blighted hope, the mingled joy,

These have no chronicler ;

The wish that warms, the dreams that fade,

Rest, unrecorded, in the shade!

52

WRITTEN IN A SKETCH-BOOK.

How brief the tale this book can give

Its painting of expression caught!

It can but make one feeling live,
Or fix one passing thought,

Of all which wander, or which rest

In the deep silence of the breast.

-As stars that deck the dark-blue sky

Beam, lonely, on the naked eye;

Yet each is but the sign

Of systems far from human sight,
Which-with their floods of living light,—

In countless numbers shine,- .

Of orbs and peopled worlds, which lie
Scattered throughout immensity!

A few short years !—and, through the dark,
Each tribute may remain alone,

Like lonely signal-lights, to mark

A world of feelings gone!—
'Tis sad to think this leaf may

The sole memorial left of me!

be

But, oh! should friendship interfere,

And, 'mid the wrecks of many a year, Preserve some relics green;

May every record love shall save

From passing time's o'erwhelming wave,

To tell that I have been,

And give me to a future age,—

Be written on as pure a page!

ENEAS AND DIDO.

He comes he comes through storm and night!

E

No sail impels-no pilot guides;

The sky has not a single light

To lamp him o'er the tides!

Through breeze and billow-swell and spray,

He stands upon his fated way,

One of those fair and visioned forms

That-like the rainbow-come in storms !

And bear's, through more than mortal strife,

The treasure of a charmed life!

-Upon his brow the grace revealed

Which kings have stamped-and gods have sealed,