No. 24.

POETRY.

THE CLOSING YEAR,
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 'Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now Is brooding, like gentle spirit. OCT The still and puseless world. Hark on the winds Inc bells deep tones are swelling; 'tis the kneli Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeans rest, Like pale, spotless shroud the air is stirred As by mourners's 8 sigh and on yon cloud Thai floats so still and paGidly throu sh heaven, The spirits oi tis season seem 10 stand | Young Spring, bright Sumner, Autumn's solemn

 form,

 And winter with his aged locks, and breathe ln mournlul cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wall, | A A melancholy dir5e OCT the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. Iris time For lof memory and for tears, Within the deep, Stlll chambers Of the heart, a spectre dm ', Whoss tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the Beautiful And holy visions that have passd away, And lett no shadow of their loYeliness On the dead waste ei life. That spectre lifts ihe eohia.hd of hope, and joy, and love, And, bending mournfully above the pale Sweet forms that slumbcr there, scattcrs dead flow Der what has passed to noIhingness. The year Has gone, and, with 1t, many glorious throng VI happy dreams. It's mark is on each brow, It's shadow in each heart. In it's swift course, t waved it's sceptre OCT the beautiful And they are no more. It laid it's pallid hand Upon the strong man, and the naughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim

 IL trod the hail ot raselry, where thronged The bright and joyous and the fearful wall 0f stricken ones IS heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It passed OCT The 6attle-plain, where sword and spear, and Flashed in the light of Iuidiay--and the strength of serled hosts IS shivered, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crusl'd and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like wreath of mist at eve; Yet, ere il melted in the vicwless air,

 It heralded its millions 10 their home

 Tn the dim land of dreams. Remorscess Time Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe--what power Gan stay him in his silent course, or melt Ills iron heart to pity On, still on

 He presses, and forever. Tie proud bird, The Condor of the Andes that can soar Through heavens unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of tho northern hurricane.

 And bathe his plnmage in the thunders home, fuTs his broad wings a. nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag-but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And nights deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep Der earth, like troubled visions OCT the breast Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink, Like bubbles on the water fiery isles Spring, blazing from the ocean, and 20 back To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear To heaven their bald and blaceened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoafy centuries, Aud rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations and the very stars,

 Ton bright and burning bazonry Of Cop, Glitter while in their eternal depths,

 And, like the Plead, oveliest of their train, Shout from their glorious spheres, and pass away, To darlle in the tracsless void--yet Time Time, the tomb builder holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wreclSs that strew his path To sit and muse, like other conquerers, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought