WE FADE AS A LEAF.

SEE the leaves around us falling, Dry and wither'd, to the ground; Thus to thoughtless mortals calling, In a sad and solemn sound:

Sons of Adam, once in Eden,
Blighted when like us he fell,
Hear the lecture we are reading,
'Tis, alas! the truth we tell.

Virgins, much, too much presuming On your boasted white and red, View us late in beauty blooming, Number'd now among the dead.

Griping misers, nightly waking, See the end of all your care; Fled on wings of our own making, We have left our owners bare.

Sons of honour, fed on praises, Fluttering high in fancied worth, Lo! the fickle air, that raises,

Brings us down to parent earth.

Learned sophs, in systems jaded,
Who for new ones daily call,
Cease, at length, by us persuaded,
Every leaf must have its fall!

Youths, though yet no losses grieve you,
Gay in health and manly grace,
Let not cloudless skies deceive you,
Summer gives to autumn place.

Venerable sires, grown hoary,
Hither turn the unwilling eye,
Think, amid your falling glory,
Autumn tells a winter nigh.

Yearly in our course returning,
Messengers of shortest stay,
Thus we preach this truth concerning,
"Heaven and earth shall pass away."

On the Tree of Life eternal,

Man, let all thy hope be stay'd,
Which alone, for ever vernal,

Bears the Leaf that shall not fade.

DR HORNE..

-Poetical Register, 1806–7.

THE BUILDERS.

ALL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is or low:

Each thing in its place is best: And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials fill'd;

Our to-days and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;

Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part;

For the gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.

H. W. LONGFELLOW, 1807—

-American.

THE DARKEST HOUR.

DESPAIR not, Poet, whose warm soul aspires
To breathe the exalted atmosphere of fame;
Give thy heart words, but purify its fires,

So that thy song may consecrate thy name :

Sing on, and hope, nor murmur that the crowd
Are slow to hear and recognise thy lay;
Thy time will come, if thou art well endow'd ;—
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Genius, wheresoe'er thou art,
Whate'er the bent and purpose of thy mind;
Use thy great gifts with an unfailing heart,
And wait till Fortune deigneth to be kind:
The world is tardy in its help and praise,

And doubts and dangers may obstruct thy way;
But light oft pierces through the heaviest haze ;-
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Patriot, who, in dreams sublime,
See'st for thy country glories yet unborn,
And fain would chide the laggard wings of Time,
Because they bring not the transcendent morn :
Be firm in thy devotion, year by year

We seem to travel on a sunward way,

And what seems dubious now, may yet be clear ;— The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

Despair not, Virtue, who in sorrow's hour
Sigh'st to behold some idol overthrown,
And from the shade of thy domestic bower

Some green branch gone, some bird of promise flown:
God chastens but to prove thy faithfulness,
And in thy weakness He will be thy stay;
Trust and deserve, and He will soothe and bless ;-
The darkest hour is on the verge of day.