The lights that lighted up my domes,

Dark eyes that flashed on me,
Are turn'd away, and oh sweet homes !

Farewell !-to ye, to ye.

TO MISS W

This heart now so desolate, fairest !

No coldness can chill;
Though nothing for me, love, thou carest,

I dote on thee still.
I must not now meet thee, ah never!

Except in the chambers of thought,
But there, I'll be meeting thee ever

To dream of a happier lot.
Oh yes, in my inmost soul, sweetest,

I'meet thee at will,
And there while the moments fly fleetest,

I gaze on thee still; 'Tis there I hang over and watch thee

Till fancy transports me to bliss, And then to my bosom, I snatch thee

Imprinting the long fervid kiss.
But let it not anger thee, dearest,

That such feelings thrill-
The heart thou so cruelly searest,

For cold art thou still
A star for my worship thou ’rt given

To shed o'er my darkness thy ray, Yet coldly and chastely through heaven

Thou mov'st on thy glittering way. In the depths of this bosom, maiden!

Those depths which you fill, Tho' my spirit's sorely laden

I cling to thee still

No power shall take thee, no lover

Shall tear thee away from my heart, There, light of my life, shalt thou hover

Till death shall decree us to part.

THE DEATH OF THE RIVER.
Whilome, old Rappahannock lay

In glorious beauty, bright
She moved adown her diamond way
To pay her tribute to the bay

In gems of sparkling light.

Rich commerce floated on her tide,
Loud
sang
her

merry tars; White sails were flapping in their pride Or bellying o'er some vessel's side

Beneath our stripes and stars.

Sometimes the steamer cleft her path,

And drove the madden'd wave, To dash on shore with thund’ring wrath As if to whelm in turbid scath

All things in wat’ry grave.

A track of blacken'd smoke she'd trail

Belch'd from her iron throat; An earthquake voice would fill the vale, To scorn she seem'd to laugh the sail

As far ahead she shot.

Look on the river now-'tis dead!

In icy coffin laid
With white sheet it is overspread,
Cold-still-all sign of motion fled,

Like corpse in its last bed,

An air of desolation reigns

Where all was life before, Like that some desert land retains Where vast white columns strew the plains,

And cities stood of yore.

No living thing is now in sight,

The birds have vanish'd longThe wild goose took a loftier height, And pour'd forth in his far off flight

His plaintive note-cohong.

a

Cohong-cohong—that solemn throng

Sent forth a dirge like sound,
As though in sad procession long
They chanted slow some fun’ral song,

To warmer climates bound.

Oh River! thou again mayst flow

With the returning spring,
Pennon and sail again mayst know,
And in thy waves, which sparkling go

The bird may bathe his wing.

But when in icy fetters, low,

I'm laid within my grave This world again will never know The wretch who wanders near thee, slow,

And sings this idle stave.

Yet River ! 'tis by wise men told

I'll rise to grander scene
Where the great shepherd pens his fold,
And rivers run of living gold

Through pastures bright and green.

Mr. Editor, I send you some African Notes, which I hope will have a general circulation.

From de Driber of Stage Number One.
I heard Massa Boz of dat po piece of fun
You write for de British bout stage number one,
An' I tink I mus try to be writin' note too,
Case I was de driber dat day who dribe you.

Wid my Pill Jiddy, Pill,
Pill Jiddy, Pill Jiddy, Pill.

Dey cry you was comin-great hubbub it caus, Bout great Massa Pickwick! de great Massa Boz! But when fus in my presence, you come sir to stand Den I see in a minnit you mighty small man.

Wid my Pill Jiddy, &c.

Ha! ha my fine feller! you come here to joke,
Den I say in dat wheel I'll soon put a spoke,
For I'll show you de way dat me dribe to de south
An’I'll make you to laf de wrong side ob your mouth.

Wid my Pill Jiddy, &c.

I jolt ober bridges an' bump on de poles,
And sink Massa Pickwick in many chuck holes ;
Like de debil I dribe, an’ mose nock out your tooth.
As you say dey sarve nigger down here at de south.

Wid my Pill Jiddy, &c.

An' so you complain dat we keep de bad road,
An' fling on de passenger water an' mud;
But de dut which you fling on us all in your Note
It is mo dan we spose sich a feller could toat,

Wid my Pill Jiddy, &c.

Dey tell me you laugh at my glub an' my hat-
But, pshuh! my sweet feller! "John dont care for dat,”
For your daddy, no doubt, ef you know who he was,
Bin war wusser dan dat I'm afeard, Massa Boz.

Wid my Pill Jiddy, &c.

At de staff of my whip you must hab a fling,
You say it was tied wid a piece o'twine string
Dat is true, an' I'll gib you one word to de wise
It was broke on de back ob a vender ob lies.

Wid my Pill Jiddy, &c.

a

Dat nigger you see settin dare on de fence-
Dat nigger, my massa, got heap o' hard sense ;
An' he see by de twist ob my face an' my eye,
I had someting to tell him quite funny bumbye.

Wid my Pill Jiddy, &c.

I mus not forgit what old ooman did say,
When I gib her de cents you gib me dat day;
She say, “Hi! dis here present does look mighty small
To be sont by great gemman”—an’ so dat is all.

Wid my Pill Jiddy, Pill,
Pill Jiddy, Pill Jiddy, Pill.

MY HUMBLE LOT.

Could I escape the humble lot

To which I am consign'd-
It suits me ill-I like it not,

“I'm cabin'd-cribb’d-confin'd,”
Who would I be?—where would I go

For what exchange my toil ?-
I swear and vow I hardly know,

So let me think awhile.