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KIRKSTALL-ABBEY REVISITED.

The echoes of its vaults are eloquent!
The stones have voices, and the walls do live:

It is the house of Memory!

Maturin.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

LONG years have passed since last I strayed,
In boyhood, through thy roofless aisle,
And watched the mists of eve o'ershade
Day's latest, loveliest smile;—
And saw the bright, broad, moving moon
Sail up the sapphire skies of June!

The air around was breathing balm;

The aspen scarcely seemed to sway;
And, as a sleeping infant calm,
The river streamed away,-
Devious as Error, deep as Love,

And blue and bright as heaven above!

Steeped in a flood of glorious light,-
Type of that hour of deep repose,—
In wan, wild beauty on my sight,
Thy time-worn tower arose,—
Brightening above the wreck of years,
Like FAITH amid a world of fears!

I climbed its dark and dizzy stair,
And gained its ivy-mantled brow;
But broken-ruined-who may dare
Ascend that pathway now?

Life was an upward journey then ;-
When shall my spirit mount again?

The steps in youth I loved to tread,
Have sunk beneath the foot of Time;
Like them, the daring hopes that led
Me, once, to heights sublime,
Ambition's dazzling dreams, are o'er,
And I may scale those heights no more!

And years have fled, and now I stand Once more by thy deserted fane, Nerveless alike in heart and hand! How changed by grief and pain, Since last I loitered here, and deemed Life was the fairy thing it seemed!

And gazing on thy crumbling walls,
What visions meet my mental eye!
For every stone of thine recalls

Some trace of years gone by,-
Some cherished bliss, too frail to last,
Some hope decayed,—or passion past!

Ay, thoughts come thronging on my soul
Of sunny youth's delightful morn ;
When free from sorrow's dark control,
By pining cares unworn,-

Dreaming of Fame, and Fortune's smile,
I lingered in thy ruined aisle !

How many a wild and withering woe

Hath seared my trusting heart since then; What clouds of blight, consuming slow

The springs that life sustain,—

Have o'er my world-vexed spirit past,
Sweet Kirkstall, since I saw thee last!

How bright is every scene beheld

In youth and hope's unclouded hours!
How darkly-youth and hope dispelled-
The loveliest prospect lours.

Thou wert a splendid vision then;-
When wilt thou seem so bright again?

P

Yet still thy turrets drink the light
Of summer-evening's softest ray,
And ivy garlands, green and bright,
Still mantle thy decay;

And calm and beauteous, as of old,

Thy wandering river glides in gold!

But life's gay morn of ecstacy,

That made thee seem so more than fair,

The aspirations wild and high,

The soul to nobly dare,

Oh where are they, stern ruin, say?—
Thou dost but echo-WHERE ARE THEY?

Farewell!-Be still to other hearts

What thou wert long ago to mine;
And when the blissful dream departs,
Do thou a beacon shine,

To guide the mourner through his tears,
To the blest scenes of happier years.

Farewell!-I ask no richer boon,

Than that my parting hour may be
Bright as the evening skies of June!
Thus-thus to fade like thee,

With heavenly FAITH'S soul-cheering ray
To gild with glory my decay!

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

THE OMENS.

And coming events cast their shadows before.

Campbell.

"HARK! the clock strikes eleven," said the Baron Rosenthal to his assembled smiling guests; "let us drink a glass to the parting year, and the memory of all the happy hours which it has brought

us."

His wish was immediately complied with; the glasses were cheerfully brought into contact with each other, and the kindly recollection of past happiness glistened in every eye.

"It is, however, a strange though serenely serious thing, to watch the death of the old and the birth of the new year," said Hermann: "properly speaking, each instant is the commencement or end of a year; or if you please, of a century, or a millennium; and it is custom merely which gives solemnity to the midnight hour betwixt the last of December and the first