P0@P1G Az .

From the Evening Journal.
The Crayc at Twilight.
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eHow dear TO my heart" is the hour of devotion,
WhcrY all the sad turmoil Of hustle is gone;
DOH cease with the twilight the din of cornnoton,
While weep by the grave of my lost alone.
IT'S an hour when the memory other that cherished
Shines pure on my heart like the moonIi GIFTED
wave;


AS chaste as that osb was my fond that's per-
i-hed,


And silently slumbers alone in her grave.
When wander alone where the turf lies above thee,
And the bright tinls OF evening are gliding the
west


l feel that the winds love thee,
AS thny kiss the wild flowers the p ace Of thy
Oft when the phyr the long grass is bending,
And whispering lis low p!aint've note in lny ear,
It's sweet sishs with mine 50 happily blending,
With thou who art Sleeping; love to be here.
May the bright dews ofmorn cherish the flowers
That bend DER thy grave though weeping for
As cherish the men'ry Of all the past hours,
When thou vert bilthe, and So happy with me.
And oh! When the rude storms Of winter teeminc,
And the tempest is beating the brow Of the hill,
Oh! may il disturb not Thy h avcn!y dreaming,
But float DER thy resting place cany and sill


NENIA.
The following elegant address to his mistress, is
bv T. Carew, who has been called the English An
acreon


Ask me where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading
For in your heanlies orient deep
These fo"'is, in their causes, sleep.
Ask me moro, WHITTIER do stray
The golden atoms Of the day;


For in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me more whittier doth haste
The nightingale when May is past
For in Your sweet divinng throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me where those stars Ii eht
That downwards fall in dead Of night;
For in yonr eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me more, if east or west


The phonix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,


And in your fragrant bosom dies.