" Where shall we go for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year,
When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,
When the boughs are yellow and sere?
Where are the old ones that once we had,
And when are the new ones near?
What shall we do for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year? "

" Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
Can I say where the lost leaves veer

( " ASHTAROTH . " )

We severed in autumn early,
Ere the earth was torn by the plough;
The wheat and the oats and the barley
Are ripe for the harvest now.
We sunder'd one misty morning,
Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain,
Through the flowers those hills adorning —
Thou comest not back again.

My heart is heavy and weary
With the weight of a weary soul;
The mid-day glare grows dreary,

HAVING THE SMALL-POX ,

Soon after the recovery of Mrs. Mohun.

Scarce could the general joy for Mohun appear,
But new attempts shew other dangers near;
Beauty's attack'd in her imperial fort,
Where all her Loves and Graces kept their court;
In her chief residence besieg'd at last,
Laments to see her fairest fields laid waste.
On things immortal all attempts are vain;
Tyrant Disease! 't is loss of time and pain;
Glut thy wild rage, and load thee with rich prize,

What's a good conscience, Eccho, canst say? Ay!
Say then, and what 'tis manifest. A feast!
Where is't? i'th' understanding wholly? O lye!
Is it then, Eccho, in my brest? My rest!
Rest? is't from pain or sin, say whether? Either!
If both, 'tis heaven on earth, a saint's bliss. Yes!
Is't in our own or others powers? Ours!
O then a jewel 'tis, rich and bright. Right!
Then tell me how shall I come by it? Buy it .
If gold will buy't gold I'l provide. O wide!
If gold will not, what else will do it? Do it!

How strong is love! what tongue expresse it can,
Or heart conceive, since it made God a man?
How strong is love! which made the God-man dye,
That man might live with God eternally?
Lord! let this love of Thine my heart inspire
With love again, as sparks rise from the fire.
Thy love's a sun, give me a beam from thence,
Which may both light and heat alike dispence,
Light to direct others the surest way
That leads to heaven and everlasting joy:
Heat to preserve in me a constant motion
Of fervent zeal to Thee, and pure devotion;

A sick man's chamber, though it often boast
The grateful presence of a literal toast,
Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth,
The right unchallenged to propose a health;
Yet though its tenant is denied the feast,
Friendship must launch his sentiment at least,
As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers' lips,
Toss them a kiss from off their fingers' tips.

The morning visit, — not till sickness falls
In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;
Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack
Stretch you all helpless on your aching back,

Love is a treacherous heat, a smothering spark,
Blown up, by children's breath, who shun the dark:
At first, the fire is innocently bright,
Glows gently gay, and scatters warm delight:
But left, neglected, and unquench'd, too long,
The nourish'd flame grows terrible and strong;
'Till, blazing fierce, it spreads on every side,
And burns its kindler, with ungrateful pride,

Who thought this snake would e're have found
An entrance into this inclosed ground,
Or that a serpent here should hide his head
Under this sweet and flowry bed:

But 'tis no newes, for long ago
(It was the divels trick man to entice)
A greater serpent made its way into
A better garden, Paradise.

And ever since there is no place
Of pleasure which we would impropriate,
But that therein the serpent showes his face,
Though we discover him too late.

We see him not before we feel
That we by his envenom'd teeth are bit,

FOR THE ST. GEORGE'S SOCIETY AT NEW YORK .

  In early Time, e'er infant Law
From Wisdom's bed
Had rear'd her head,
  The tyrant kept his slaves in awe.
Justice feebly pois'd the scale:
Wisdom only could prevail.

  In vain the aged Matron weeps
  O'er blushing Beauty's rifled charms;
  Her eyes on Heaven in vain she keeps;
 The fainting Virgin fills the Robber's arms,
 Secure he riots o'er his helpless prey,
Mocks all her woes, and bears the prize away!

 The night the century ebbed out, all worn with work and sin,
The night a twentieth century, all fresh with hope, came in,
The children watched, the evening long, the midnight clock to see,
And to wish to one another “A Happy Century!”
They climbed upon my knee, and they tumbled on the floor;
And Bob and Nell came begging me for stories of the War.

 But I told Nell that I would tell no tales but tales of peace,—
God grant that for a hundred years the tales of war might cease!
I told them I would tell them of the blessed Harvest Store,