Mown down like swathes of summer flowers,
Yes! on the cold earth there they lie,
The lords of Scotland's bannered towers,
The chosen of her chivalry!
Commingled with the vulgar dead,
Perhaps lies many a mitred head;
And thou, the vanguard onwards leading,
Who left the sceptre for the sword,
For battle-field the festal board,
Liest low amid the bleeding!

Yes! here thy life-star knew decline,

Though hope, that strove to be deceived, Shaped thy lone course to Palestine,

And what it wished full oft believed:-
An unhewn pillar on the plain

Marks out the spot where thou wast slain;
There pondering as I stood, and gazing
On its gray top, the linnet sang,

And o'er the slopes where conflict rang, The quiet sheep were grazing.

And were the nameless dead unsung,
The patriot and the peasant train,
Who like a phalanx round thee clung,

To find but death on Flodden Plain?
No! many a mother's melting lay
Mourned o'er the bright flowers wede away;
And many a maid, with tears of sorrow,
Whose locks no more were seen to wave,
Wept for the beauteous and the brave,
Who came not on the morrow!

TO THE IVY.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

OH! how could fancy grown with thee
In ancient days, the god of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er;
Where song's full notes once pealed around,
But now are heard no more!

The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains,
Around the victor's tent;

Yet, there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene,
Around the Victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;-
Where through the halls of glory gone
Murmurs the wintry blast;

Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair ;-
Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods,

On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes

And cities of the dead;

Deserted palaces of kings,

Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown,-
And all once-glorious earthly things,
At length are thine alone.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime
Beneath a blue, Italian sky,

Hath nought of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!

And reared midst crags and clouds 'tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O'er mouldering towers by lovely Rhine
Cresting the rocky shore.

High from the fields of air, look down,
Those eyries of a vanished race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath passed, and left no trace;
But thou art there!-thy foliage bright,
Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave,-
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,
That rise round grandeur's marble halls,
The vivid hues by painting thrown,
Rich o'er the glowing walls,-
The Acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptured beauty waving fair;—
These, perish all-and what remains?
Thou-thou alone art there!

'Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see; The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to decay and thee!

And still let man his fabrics rear,

Days pass, thou Ivy never sere,

And all is thine at length.

SONG.

BY THE REV. J. WOLFE,

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,
That I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,
And now I feel as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou would'st stay even as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill bleak corpse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own,
But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I perhaps may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

MY BIRTHDAY.

BY N. P. WILLIS, ESQ.

My birthday! As the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears.-Moore.

I'm twenty-two;-I'm twenty-two, they gaily give me joy,

As if I should be glad to hear that I was less a boy; They do not know how carelessly their words have given pain

To one, whose heart would leap to be a happy boy again!

A change has o'er my spirit passed, my mirthful hours are few,

The light is all departed now my early feelings knew; I used to love the morning gray, the twilight's quiet deep,

But now, like shadows on the sea, upon my thoughts they creep.

And love was as a holy star, when this brief year was young,

And my whole worship of the sky on one sweet ray was flung;

But worldly things have come between, and shut it from my sight,

And though that star shines purely yet, I mourn its hidden light!

And fame!-I bent to it my knee, and bowed to it my

brow,

And it is like a coal upon my living spirit now;