TIME'S PORTRAIT.

TIME!-paint me Time! He hath the snowy hair, The wrinkled brow, the hour-glass, and the scythe; Trees bending o'er him, but with branches bare;

Wings on his shoulders, hoary, yet not lithe

Like those that seraphs wear; broad pinions, strong
And free; upbearing, yet not hasty; face
To which the mind of worlds seems to belong,

Yet not akin to gaiety or grace :

So paint me Time!

And yet, not thus, not always thus he seems,

The stern destroyer; in a milder form

Ofttimes he comes:- paint him 'midst broken dreams, With nothing of the pestilence or storm;

No weapon in his hand; the hand itself

Laid on the lordly hall, the lowly cot,

The Beauty's roses, and the Miser's pelf;

And broidered on his robe the word "

So paint me Time!

"Forgot!"

Yet hath he other seemings. In his hand
The sword of Justice, and the poisoned cup
Remorse and Conscience drug; a flaming brand;
A chalice the unrighteous shall drink up!
So paint me Time, the Avenger; on his brow
A crown of stars, with red and angry light,
Searching like eyes the sinner's conscience now,

Smiting his spirit with a deadly blight:

So paint me Time!

Another aspect. With a golden key

:

He stands, the Keeper of the mighty Past,

The treasure-house of deathless Memory;

And ever grow its stores more strange and vast;

Jewels of thought; dreams half dissolved in air;

Love, hope, and transport, all the joys of Youth,

And sins of Age, are duly garnered there,

And registered within the book of Truth:
So paint me Time!

And yet once more, and in a lovelier form:
Call him the Perfecter!- his hand may close
The gate whence issues the devouring storm,
And yet unfold the petals of the rose;

And as the Tutor of the human soul,

Opening its pathway o'er Life's troubled sea,

Unto the shelter of its mighty goal,

The wide-spread portal of Eternity:

Thus paint me Time!

MRS. JAMES GRAY.

A LOVER'S BALLAD.

SHE'S on my heart, she's in my thoughts,

At midnight, morn, and noon;

December's snows behold her there,

And there, the rose of June.

I never breathe her lovely name,
When wine and mirth go round;
But, oh! the gentle moonlight air
Knows well the silver sound.

I care not if a thousand hear,

When other maids I praise;

I would not have my brother by,
When 'tis on her I gaze.

The dew were from the lily gone,

The gold had lost its shine,

If any but my love herself

Could hear me call her mine!

MISS TEWSBURY.