From a novel, Self-Dependance, Vol. 1 [Anonymous] (London: Thomas Cautley Newby, 1849), page 211:


As he sat by my side, lost in thought, a dead leaf fell upon his breast. He gazed mournfully upon it, and addressed it in the following plaintive lines. The lines I have since met with, in a periodical of the last century.

Pale, withered wanderer! seek not here,
A refuge from the ruthless sky:
This breast affords no happier cheer,
Than the rude blighting breeze you fly.

Cold is the atmosphere of grief,
When storms assail the barren breast.
Go then, poor exile, seek relief
In bosoms where the heart has rest.

Or fall upon the oblivious ground,
Where silent sorrows buried lie:
There rest is surely to be found,
Or what alas! to hope have I?

Where sepulchred in peace, repose
In yonder field the village dead,
Go, seek a shelter among those
Who all their mortal tears have shed.

But if thou com'st a Sybil's leaf,
Such as did erst high truths declare,
To tell me, soon shall end my grief,
I bless the omen that you bear.

For sure you tell me that my woe
An end like thine at length shall have;
That wan like thee and wasted so,
I sink to the forgetful grave.

Then come thou messenger of peace!
Come, lodge within this barren breast;
And lie there, till we both shall cease
To seek in vain for Nature's rest.


[No title or author is given. The periodical referred to is apparently The Olio, Volume 1 (New York: Samuel Marks, 1813-1814), page 22.]