The sparkler of the woods is caught, The eagle's bosom pierced ere long: What symbol shall for age be sought? What bird its emblem be in song ?

The mocking-bird its likeness be,
That hath no music of its own;
That sings with imitative glee —
The bird of MEMORY alone.

THE WORLD'S MASQUE.

"I AM not old - I am not old!"-
'Twas thus I heard one say,
"And there's a spirit in my

That keeps old age away;

heart

'Tis Love that like an angel guards Life's fountain from decay.

I muse upon my fellow-men
To me they are a book,
And oft my fancy rightly spells

Their thoughts-by word and look; Ay, many a proud and weary wight That searching ill would brook.

For this, I seek the haunts of mirth,

And those that mirth haunts least; None fear me — for they deem me one

With whom life's love hath ceased:

They slip their visors, and I see

The spectre at the feast!

When others praise the lute and song,

The singer and his spell,

I gaze upon each listener's face

That can deep histories tell, Seeking the one, for whom, alas! The singer sang so well.

I follow, in the track of Fame,
The path her crowned ones tread;
Others behold their glittering eyes,
But I their brows instead -

The man
- the man of guile and care,
Whose heart hath long been dry;
A fountain whence no waters flow,
But weeds instead wave high;
Others may hear his courtly wit,
I- but his smothered sigh!

Oh, fellow-men! how often grief
Is on me for your sakes!
And yet I would not love ye less-

For the sorrow that love wakes Makes my heart prayerful for ye all, And happy while it aches!"

BIRTH-DAY BALLAD.

THOU art plucking spring-roses, Genie,
And a little red rose art thou;
Thou hast unfolded to day, Genie,
Another bright leaf, I trow;

But the roses will live and die, Genie,
Many and many a time,

Ere thou hast unfolded quite, Genie-
Grown into maiden prime.

Thou art looking now at the birds, Genie,
But oh, do not wish their wing,
That would only tempt the fowler, Genie,
Stay thou on earth and sing;
Stay in the nursing-nest, Genie,

Be not soon thence beguiled,

Thou wilt ne'er find a second, Genie;

Never be twice a child.

Thou art building towers of pebbles, Genie-
Pile them up brave and high;

And leave them to follow a bee, Genie,
As he wandereth singing by;

But if thy towers fall down, Genie,

And if the brown bee is lost,

Never weep

for thou must learn, Gennie,

That soon life's schemes are crost.

Thy hand is in a bright boy's, Genie,

He calls thee his sweet wee wife ; But let not thy little heart think, Genie, Childhood the prophet of life:

It may be life's minstrel, Genie,
And sing sweet songs and clear;
But minstrel and prophet now, Genie,
Are not united here.

What will thy future fate be, Genie?
Alas! shall I live to see!

For thou art scarce a sapling, Genie,
And I am a moss-grown tree!
I am shedding life's leaves fast, Genie,
Thou art in blossom sweet;

But think betimes of the grave, Genie,
Where young and old oft meet.

SONG.

SHE'S on my heart, she's in my thoughts
At midnight, morn and noon;
December's snow beholds 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 I upon her gaze.

The dews were from the lily gone,
The gold has lost its shine,

If any but my love herself
Could hear me call her mine.

MARY ANN BROWNE.*

THIS young poetess, daughter of the Vicar of Twickenham, and reared in that atmosphere of the muses where Pope lived and sung, gave early promise of genius. At the age of fifteen she published a volume-" Ada and other Poems," which was very kindly received by the literary public, and gained, for its juvenile writer, the friendship and correspondence of some of the "first and best" of England's gifted bards. Since that time (about seven years,) she has written, chiefly, for the periodicals and annuals. In the "Winter's Wreath" appeared "A World without Water"-a truly wonderful poem for a young lady to indite; and though the critic, seeking for resemblances, may call it a suggestion from Byron's" Darkness," it is certainly equal to Campbell's Last Man," said, also, to be a reflection from the same source of inspiration.

#

Many of the latest poems of Miss Browne, have appeared in the “Knickerbocker," published at New York, and these have made her name known, and her genius highly esteemed in this country. It has been thought here that she was a relative of Mrs. Hemans, as she bore the maiden surname of that lady-but we have learned that it is only in soul and genius that the relationship can be traced —there is no family affinity. The sister of Mrs. Hemans, who composes music, is no poetess.