NO MORE.

My wind has turned to bitter north, That was so soft a south before; My sky, that shone so sunny bright,

With foggy gloom is clouded o'er; My gay green leaves are yellow-black

Upon the dank autumnal floor; For love, departed once, comes back No more again, no more.

A roofless ruin lies my home,

For winds to blow and rains to pour; One frosty night befell-and lo!

I find my summer days are o'er. The heart bereaved, of why and how Unknowing, knows that yet before It had what e'en to memory now Returns no more, no more.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

QUA CURSUM VENTUS.

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail, at dawn of day

Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied; Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so-but why the tale reveal

Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew, to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged.

At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered; Ah! neither blamed, for neither willed

Or wist what first with dawn appeared.

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, Brave barks! In light, in darkness too! Through winds and tides one compass guides

To that and your own selves be true. 43

673

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas, Though ne'er that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again,

Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought-
One purpose hold where'er they fare;
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there!

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

STANZAS.

My life is like the summer rose

That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,

Is scattered on the ground-to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see-
But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail-its date is brief,

Restless and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless treeBut none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet

Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to effaco
All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea-
But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

MUTABILITY.

THE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts, and then flies; What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright.