The Flight of Time.

FAINTLY flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away;
Down to ocean gliding ever,

Keep thy calm unruffled way;
Time with such a silent motion
Floats along on wings of air,
To eternity's dark ocean,
Burying all its treasures there.

Roses bloom, and then they wither;

Cheeks are bright then fade and die ;

Shapes of light are wafted hither,

Then, like visions hurry by;
Quick as clouds at evening driven
O'er the many-colored west,
Years are bearing us to heaven,
Home of happiness and rest.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

Poetry.

THERE can be no heart so cold that it has not often acknowledged that there is, in life, much poetry that has never been

written or told-which does not often thrill with emotions which it can never express. The heart is like some harp, which a master's touch can awaken to the proudest, loftiest harmony, but whose strings will vibrate with soft and tremulous melody beneath the zephyr which floats over its chords. Great and insulated events awaken us to deep and more definable feeling; they are the master's touch. The thousand little things, the "beauty all around our daily paths" those slight occurrences which many fail to observe, are the soft vibrations of the breeze which sweeps over it. It is a pleasing study for those who love to speculate upon such subjects, rather than to mingle in the turmoil of life, to mark the thousand ways in which this unwritten poetry of the heart springs forth to life and being; and to note those national, sectional differences, which distinguish one portion of human nature from another. FLORENCE.

The Aching Heart.

I'm weary of this weary world - I'm weary of its grief;

My sickening spirit turns away, and vainly seeks

relief;

In vain, in vain I pray for bliss, in vain I pray to

know

If pure unsullied happiness dwells in this vale of

woe;

My wounded soul can find no joy, no healing balm

to stay

The deep and fearful gush of griefs that on my spirit weigh;

On, through the dim dark dreariness of coming shadowy years,

My fancy roves, and meets a waste, a wilderness of fears.

So dark, so drear, that Death's dark vale would be to me more sweet,

And all the terrors of the tomb I would not fear to meet.

One voice is wanting to my ear, one deep, low, silvery voice,

To breathe its tones of music out, and bid my heart rejoice;

One glance forth from that flashing eye to chase away my night,

One glance of love! -- oh! would it not o'erwhelm me in its light,

To hear love's own sweet language fall from his dear lips on me?

Peace! peace, my fondly picturing heart it is but mockery.

It cannot be it may not be - for "WOMAN's lot" is thine;

Concealment shall feed on thy cheek, and thou in sorrow pine.

Can I not bid my heart be free? Will not my woman's pride

Come now in its o'ermastering strength my wasted love to hide;

Shall all the gushing tenderness which others sought to wake

Come rushing from unfathomed depths with its own weight to break,

I will not yield me up to dreams; my spirit shall not bow

In tame submission to a spell his heart can never

know;

I will awake my slumbering soul, I will again be

free,

And change into forgetfulness, all my idolatry;

No flush shall deepen on my brow, no trembling seize my frame,

When from the gay and heartless throng, I hear his once loved name.

'Tis vain!

I wreathe my face in joy, and teach my lip to smile,

But oh my aching, saddened heart seems bursting all the while;

For sorrow's wasting blight has found its way into my heart,

And now Hope's budding visions fade, Youth's morning dreams depart;

And the bright sunny smile of joy, that on my cheek should bloom,

Has given place to sorrow's sigh, the gushing tear of gloom;

And joyous glances of the eye that once could flash with mirth,

Have gone, and tell in quenched beams, how fade the joys of earth.

They tell me I am beautiful, and speak to me of love;

But life too early lost its charm-their praises cannot move;

I listen to the honied words they breathe into my

car,