MY BIRTH-DAY.

Through a dull tract of woe, of dread, The toiling year has pass'd and fled: And, lo! in sad and pensive strain, I sing my birth-day date again.

Trembling and poor, I saw the light, New waking from unconscious night; Trembling and poor I still remain, To meet unconscious night again.

Time in my pathway strews few flowers, To cheer or cheat the weary hours; And those few strangers, dear indeed, Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.