'Neath gloomy willows weeping,
Wrapt in his shroud of sullen wrath,
The _Suicide_ was sleeping,
A scathed yew-tree's wither'd limb,
To mark the spot, frown'd o'er him.

I wept--to think my fellow-man,
(To madness often driven,)
Pursue false Glory's phantoms, then
Lose happiness and heaven:
I wept--for oh! it seem'd to be
A mournful moral meant for me!

But lo! an aged traveller came,
By Wisdom sent to guide me,
Experience was the pilgrim's name,
And thus he seem'd to chide me--
"Fool! Happiness is gone the road
That leads to Virtue's calm abode!"

JESSE HAMMOND.

* * * * *



MY COMMON-PLACE BOOK.

NO. XXI.