POETRY.

From the NewburypOrt Herald.
THOUGHTS ON THE SEASON.
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THOUGHTS ON THE SEASON.
It's done-and the harvest is lovely no more,
On Natures cold bosom, no blossoms APPEAR
The billows beat high the ice covered shore,
And Winter, stern monarch, rsles over the year.
Though Ife's fairy scenes-so lovely and gay,
Are gilded with smiles and blooming with flowers {;
Yet Time ever rolls the bright seasons away,
And the ices of age must encirele her bowers.
How thoughtless We stand on the grave of the year
And the tribute of sorrow, refuse TO bestow;
While Winters cold blast, in its lonely career,
Seems sadly to sigh the dull wsiings OF woe.
Is Iife's early morn ike smooth gliding stream'
Where sleeps the stil wave on the moss covered


shores


Yet sorrows dark storms win chase the eardream,
And the bubbles of pleasure can cheat Us no more
In the morning we bloom ike the dew spangied


rose,


And the sunbeams of hope in our pathway ap-


pear;


Tet Faney's gay dreams in stiii silence repose,
Forgotten and lost in the tomb of the year.
But there's bright sersph all lovely and mild,
Who lights the dark gloom of hfe's dreary way;
No more the dread tempest blows frantic and wild,
For hope sweetly smiles in the sunbeams Of day.
She points to those scenes mid the splendors of


light,


Where the golden clad bands of the Seraphim


stray;


Beyond the cold storms, the dark shadows of night,
TO the suns and the smiles of perennial day
There, there the dark bllow shall toss me more,
Nor the tempest of grief beat cold on my breast;
trace bright scene on the verdure deck'd shore,
'Tis the mansion of peace and the haven Of rest.