I AM ALL ALONE.

I AM all alone!—and the visions that play
Round life's young days, have passed away;
And the songs are hushed that gladness sings;

And the hopes that I cherished have made them wings;

And the light of my heart is dimmed and gone,
And I sit in my sorrow, and all alone!

And the forms which I fondly loved are flown,
And friends have departed-one by one;

And memory sits, whole lonely hours,

And weaves her wreath of hope's faded flowers,
And

weeps o'er the chaplet, when no one is near To gaze on her grief, or to chide her tear!

And the home of my childhood is distant far,

And I walk in a land where strangers are;

And the looks that I meet and the sounds that I hear
Are not light to my spirit, nor song to my ear;
And sunshine is round me,-which I cannot see,
And eyes that beam kindness, but not for me!

And the song goes round, and the glowing smile,
But I am desolate all the while!

And faces are bright and bosoms glad,

And nothing, I think, but my heart, is sad!
And I seem like a blight in a region of bloom,
While I dwell in my own little circle of gloom!

I wander about, like a shadow of pain,

With a worm in my breast, and a spell on my brain;
And I list, with a start, to the gushing of gladness,—
Oh! how it grates on a bosom all sadness!—
So, I turn from a world where I never was known,
To sit in my sorrow,-and all alone!

WINGS.

On! for the wings we used to wear,
When the heart was like a bird,

And floated, still, through summer air,
And painted all it looked on fair,

And sung to all it heard!

When fancy put the seal of truth
On all the promises of youth!

Oh! for the wings with which the dove
Flies to the valley of her rest,"

To take us to some pleasant grove,
Where hearts are not afraid to love,

And truth is, sometimes, blest;

To make the spirit mount again

That time has bowed, and grief, and pain!

It may not oh, it may not be !

I cannot soar on fancy's wing,

And hope has been,-like thee, like thee!

These

many weary years, to me,

A lost and perished thing!

Are there no pinions left, to bear
Me where the good and gentle are!

Yes!-rise upon the morning's wing,"
And, far beyond the farthest sea,
Where autumn is the mate of spring,
And winter comes not withering,

There is a home for thee !

Away-away!—and lay thy head

In the low valley of the dead!

CARTHAGE.

AFTER A PICTURE, BY LINTON. 12

Is it some vision of the elder day,

Won from the dead-sea waters, by a spell
Like her's who waked the prophet ?—or a dream
Of burning Egypt,-ere the Lybian sand

Had flung its pall above a perished world, — Dreamt on its dreary grave, that has no flowers? -It is the eastern orphan's ocean-home!

The southern queen!—the city of the sea,