THE BROKEN HEART.

[Columbian Register. New-Haven.]

HE has gone to the land where the dead are still
And mute the song of gladness;
He drank at the cup of grief his fill,
And his life was a dream of madness;
The victim of fancy's torturing spell,
From hope to darkness driven,
His agony was the rack of Hell,
His joy, the thrill of Heav'n.

He has gone to the land where the dead are cold,
And thought will sting him-never;

The tomb its darkest veil has roll'd

O'er all his faults forever;

O! there was a light, that shone within
The gloom that hung around him;
His heart was form'd to woo and win,
But love had never crown'd him.

He has gone to the land, where the dead may rest
In a soft, unbroken slumber,

Where the pulse, that swell'd his anguish'd breast,
Shall never his tortures number;

Ah! little the reckless witlings know,
How keenly throbb'd and smarted

That bosom, which burn'd with a brightest glow,
Till crush'd and broken-hearted.

He long'd to love, and a frown was all
The cold and thoughtless gave him ;
He sprang at Ambition's trumpet-call,
But back they rudely drave him;
He glow'd with a spirit pure and high,
They call'd the feeling madness;
And he wept for wo with a melting eye,—
'Twas weak and moody sadness.

He sought, with an ardour full and keen,
To rise to a noble station,

But repuls'd by the proud, the cold, and mean,
He sunk in desperation;

They call'd him away to Pleasure's bowers,
But gave him a poison'd chalice,

And, from her alluring wreath of flowers,
They glanc'd the grin of malice.

He felt that the charm of life was gone,
That his hopes were chill'd and blasted,

EVENING IN THE GRAVE-YARD.

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That being wearily linger'd on

In darkness, while it lasted:
He turn'd to the picture fancy drew,

Which he thought would darken never;

It fled to the damp, cold grave he flew,

And he sleeps with the dead forever.

AN EVENING IN THE GRAVE-YARD. [American Watchman. Wilmington, Del.] THE moon is up, the evening star

Shines lovely from its home of blueThe fox-howl's heard on the fell afar,

And the earth is robed in a sombre hue;
From the shores of light the beams come down,
On the river's breast, and cold grave stone.

The kindling fires o'er heaven so bright,
Look sweetly out from yon azure sea;
While the glitt'ring pearls of the dewy night,
Seem trying to mimic their brilliancy;
Yet all those charms no joy can bring

To the dead, in the cold grave slumbering.

To numbers wild, yet sweet withal,

P.

Should the harp be struck o'er the sleepy pillow; Soft as the murmuring breezy fall,

Of sighing winds on the foamy billow;
For who would disturb in their silent bed,
The fancied dreams of the lowly dead?

Oh! is there one in this world can say,
That the soul exists not after death!
That the powers which illumine this mould of clay,
Are but a puff of common breath!

Oh! come this night to the grave and see

The sleepy sloth of your destiny.

The night's soft voice, in breathings low,

Imparts a calm to the breast of the weeper:

The water's dash and murmuring flow

No more will sooth the ear of the sleeper,
Till he, who slept on Judah's plains,
Shall burst death's cold and icy chains.

I've seen the moon gild the mountain's brow;
I've watch'd the mist o'er the river stealing,
But ne'er did I feel in my breast till now,

So deep, so calm, and so holy a feeling : 'Tis soft as the thrill which memory throws Athwart the soul in the hour of repose.

F

Thou Father of all! in the worlds of light,
Fain would my spirit aspire to thee;
And thro' the scenes of this gentle night,
Behold the dawn of eternity:

For this is the path, which thou hast giv'n,
The only path to the bliss of Heav'n.

TO EVA, WITH A ROSE.

[True American. Trenton, N. J.]

WILLIAM.

"The separation of soul and body may be likened unto a rose, which, after its life hath perished, continues to exhale a sweet odour." ST. AUGUSTINE.

I SAW embalm'd in morning air,

The rose of summer, blooming fair ;
Bright ruby tints its blushes drest,
And dew-drops sparkled on its breast;
Imperial flower, it seem'd as born
A jewel for the brow of morn!

I pluck'd the rose, and bade it lie
Near Eva's heart, to bloom and die ;
And oh! I said, thou loveliest gem,
In summer's glowing diadem!

Thy life how bright! thy death how blest!
To perish thus on Eva's breast,
Communing in the doom of bliss,
With Eva's sigh and Eva's kiss.

And thus, mayst thou, when time is past,
On some lov'd bosom breathe thy last;
And, like the rose, whose balmy breath,
Exhales beyond its hour of death,
Thy gentle spirit, calm and even
As moon-beam melting into heaven,
From its frail clay, like perfume, rise,
And mingle with its kindred skies.

TO PLEASURE.

[Missisippi Republican.]

Oн, Pleasure! I have fondly woo'd
But never won thy fleeting favor;

My early suit was wild and rude,
And, startled, thou didst fly forever..

Awhile, I deeply sorrow'd o'er

The wreck of all that perish'd then ;
But wilder, sweeter, than before,

Thy smile, tho' distant, beam'd again.

And my sad heart, tho' deeply chill'd,
Still panting, sought thy lov'd embrace,
Trac'd every path, thy votaries fill'd

To meet thee in thy resting place.
I saw thee, mantling warm in wine,
And deeply bath'd my fever'd lip ;
I saw thee pause at beauty's shrine,
And surely hop'd thy sweets to sip.
But wine and beauty both conspir'd
To fill my soul with dark regret :
For scarcely now, their sweets expir'd,
And pleasure, fleeting, 'scap'd me yet.
And now with scarce a feeling warm,
When all should bloom in hearts unwasted,
I turn me from thy lovely form,

Thy joys unknown, thy sweets untasted.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful shade!

Tho' bright the charms that still adorn thee;
Too fondly press'd, they withering fade,
And all, who follow, soon must scorn thee.

FROM THE COUNTER OF

JEREMY BROADCLOTH, SHOP-KEEPER,
CHAPEL-STREET, NEW-HAVEN.
[Connecticut Herald. New-Haven.]

MR. HERALD,

I am one of those unfortunate beings, who, having lived a certain number of years in what is called a state of single blessedness, are stigmatized with the epithet of OLD BACHELORS. It is not my wish to inquire whether the imputations attached to our fraternity, by a censorious world, are just or not; whether avarice, ill temper, or timidity, may be considered as the cause of celibacy. Perhaps this sin may sometimes be traced to one or all of these sources. Whatever be our portion of the blame, however, I believe that any candid man will agree with me, in placing some share of it to the credit of the other sex. There was a time, Mr. Herald, when an old bachelor, or an old maid, was regarded as a singular phenomenon in this land of ours. Then, every man, who could get hasty-pudding and milk, or pork and potatoes, enough to fill three or four mouths, was in a

condition to marry. Ladies could sit on three legged stools, manufacture their own clothes, be content with a clean oak floor, and eat with a very good appetite from a bright pewter platter. Ah! those were halcyon days. Then, a wife was not only a comfort, but a help to her husband. Rosy-cheeked Health was the inmate of every house, and Contentment beamed from every eye. There were no notes to meet at the bank-no tradesmen's bills for kid. shoes and spangles-no milliner's bills for new head-dresses-no accounts for lace-no items for cosmetics to take the freckles out of Mrs. Dasher's face, or for the best Castile to whiten her dear little hands-no doctor's bills for curing her of the corset fever-no hack hire for carrying her to the Springs, &c. &c. In such times, who would not have married? A man was then almost certain, when he got a wife, to get a good thing. But, bless my stars, sir! how times have altered! Where shall we find the fair one now, that can sit upon a threelegged stool; can relish pork and potatoes; can put up with an oak floor; or prefer hasty-pudding and love to a drawing-room and plum-cake? Ladies now-a-days must have their elegant parlours, their Turkey carpets, their superb mirrors, their gilt chairs, their crimson damask curtains, mahogany tables and sideboards, their Cashmere shawls, their Canton-crape gowns, their goldtipped indispensables, their gold watches, their gold chains, and their gold smelling-bottles! In short, sir, a married woman, who would move in the first circles, even in this little metropolis, must have as much in her parlour, as would purchase a cargo of rum ; and carry as many valuables about her person, as would load an Arabian camel.

Such gewgaws were once deemed superfluities; but custom has rendered them necessary to the happiness of the ladies. The other evening, I called to spend a few hours with my friend captain Bowline, a plain honest jack tar. He appeared to be quite melancholy. As this was something new for Jack, after a few unsuccessful efforts to rouse him, I made bold to enquire the cause of his ennui. Why, to tell you the truth, man, (said he,) I am very unhappy. Mrs. Bowline, last week,

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