THE OLIO.

From the London Amulet.

 STANZAS.
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STANZAS.

 ny THE HON. MRS. E. c. NORTON. FAINTER her slow steps faii from day to

 day,

 Deaths hand is heavy on her darkening ct doth she fondly cling to earth and say, j, q am content to die-hut ,oh! not now!-- Not while the blossoms of the joy ous spring Make the warm air such luxury to

 breathe Not while the birds such lays of gladncss

 sing

 Not while tho bright flowers around my

 footsteps wreathe, Spare me, great God lift up my dropping

 brow | am content to debut. oh. not now!' The spring hath ripened into summer time; The seasons viewless boundary is past; The glorious sun hath reached his burning

 prime Oh. must this glimpse of beauty bc the

 last 1! Wet me not perish while Der land and sea, With silent steps the Lord oflight moves

 on For while the m.rmur of the mountain bee Greets my dull ear with music in it's

 tone Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my

 brow Summer is gone and autumn's soberer Tint the ripe fruits. and gild the waving

 corn Tine huntsman swift the fysng game pur-

 sues,

 Shouts the halloo! aud winds his eager

 horn. sSpare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze On the broad meadows and the quiet stream To watch in silence while the evening rays Slant through fhe fading trees with Ttid- dy gleamy Cooler the bretzes play around my brow am content to die .--but, oh !! not nov!' The bleak wind whistles snow showers far and near Drift without echo Co the whitening ground Autumr hath passed away, and cold and drear, Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound Yst still that prayer ascends. sOh. laugh ingly

 My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, Our home-fre blazes broad, and bright, and high,

 And the roof rings with voices light and

 loud Spare mo awhile ,! raise up my dropping

 brow I am content to die-but, oh not now ? The spring is come again--the joyful spring!

 Again the banks with clustered flowers

 are spread The wild bird dips upon it's wanton wing Ths child of earth is numbered wi,h the dead. sThen never more the sunshine shall a.

 wake,

 Beaming all redly through the lattice

 pane; The steps of friends thy slumbers may not

 break,

 Nor fond familiar voice arouse again Deaths silent shadow veils thy darkened brow Why didst thou finger !-thou art happier now