Only to tell my faults: For better that some hearts be ta Ev'n of my follies than of nough Oh! yes, remember me In gentleness and love: Let not the chasm be early filled TO **** BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. THE world is bright before thee, Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine; And thine the sunbeam given There is a song of sorrow, The death-dirge of the gay, That tells, ere dawn of morrow, These charms may melt away, That sun's bright beam be shaded, That sky be blue no more, The summer flowers be faded, And youth's warm promise o'er. Though Beauty's bark can only Float on a summer sea; Though Time thy bloom is steali The sunbeam of the heart. THE LOST HUNTER. BY ALFRED B. STREET. NUMBED by the piercing, freezing air, The rifle he had shouldered late The hours were speeding in their flight, Oft did he stoop a listening ear, His sinuous path, by blazes, wound 232 THE LOST HUNTER. Among trunks grouped in myriads round;— With many a shape grotesquely wrought, The hemlock's spire was seen. An antlered dweller of the wild Had met his eager gaze, And far his wandering steps beguiled Within an unknown maze; Stream, rock, and run-way, he had crossed And now, deep swamp and wild ravine, A dusky haze, which slow had crept Athwart the thick gray air Faster and faster, till between The trunks and boughs, a mottled screen Of glimmering motes was spread, Like brook o'er pebbled bed. |