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The children of man arise, and pass
Out of the world like blades of grass ;
And many a foot on me has trod,
That's gone from sight and under the sod!
I am a Pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"

III.

The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abashed and mute; She never before had been so near This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ;And she felt for a while perplexed to know "How to answer a thing so low.

IV.

But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
"Since it has happened that I am thrown
From the lighter element, where I grew,
Down to another so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased I will cover my head with dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time nor season, nor storm nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding wheel,
Has ever subdued, or made to feel."

v.

And soon in the earth she sunk away, From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. But it was not long ere the soil was broke, By the peering head of an infant oak;

And as it arose, and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said—

VI.

"A modest Acorn! never to tell

What was enclosed in her simple shell-
That the pride of the forest was then shut up,
Within the space of her little cup!

And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
To prove that nothing could hide her worth.
And, oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and adinire that beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering towards the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I.

VII.

"Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to year; But never from this shall a vaunting word From the humble Pebble again be heard, Till something without me, or within, Can show the purpose for which I've been !" The Pebble could not its vow forget, And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.

THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and

lted youth.

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While, in his softened looks, benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strows with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man?-a patriot?-look around;
Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land THY COUNTRY, and that spot THY HOME.

THE DYING GIRL'S LAMENT.

WHY does my mother steal away
To hide her struggling tears?
Her trembling touch betrays unchecked.
The secret of her fears;

My father gazes on my face

With yearning, earnest eye;

And yet, there's none among them all,
To tell me I must die!

My little sisters press around
My sleepless couch, and bring,
With eager hands, their garden gift,
The first sweet buds of spring!
I wish they'd lay me where those flowers
Might lure them to my bed,

When other springs and summers bloom,
And I am with the dead.

The sunshine quivers on my cheek,
Glitt'ring, and gay, and fair,
As if it knew my hand too weak
To shade me from its glare!
How soon 'twill fall unheeded on
This death-dewed glassy eye!
Why do they fear to tell me so?
I know that I must die!

The summer winds breathe softly through

My lone, still, dreary room,

A lonelier and a stiller one

Awaits me in the tomb!

But no soft breeze will whisper there,

No mother hold my

head!

It is a fearful thing to be

A dweller with the dead!

Eve after eve the sun prolongs
His hour of parting light,

And seems to make my farewell hours
Too fair, too heavenly bright!

I know the loveliness of earth,
I love the evening sky,

And yet I should not murmur,
They told me I must die.

My playmates turn aside their heads
When parting with me now,
The nurse that tended me a babe,
Now soothes my aching brow.
Ah! why are those sweet cradled-hours
Of joy and fondling fled ?

Not e'en my parents' kisses now
Could keep me from the dead!

Our pastor kneels beside me oft,
And talks to me of heaven;
But with a holier vision still,
My soul in dreams hath striven;
I've seen a beckoning hand that called

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My faltering steps on high;

I've heard a voice that, trumpet-tongued,

Bade me prepare to die!

THE MARINER'S DREAM.

IN slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, His hammoc✶ swung loose at the sport of the wind;

But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory
each scene gayly covered with flow-

ers,

And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

* Hammoc, a kind of hanging bed, suspended by hooks, on board ships.

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