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She had proffered friendship’s snowdrops, she was ever
tender-hearted, But the roses of her loving they hung far beyond my
She will mate with but her equals; men of ancient
names and stately Will have power to win her kisses, and my lowly
claim must yield; They will never stoop to worship as I've worshiped,
loving greatly, Though my ancestors have fallen not upon the
Fair the future spreads before her, will it ever bring
repentance For an honest love rejected, for a stricken heart and
sore ? Shall I ever dare to ask her for remission of my sen
tence ?But my music makes an answer with a hopeless
And I think on that great master who, when life was
swiftly fleeting, Wrote the sad sepulchral music ere he bowed his
noble head, That from all the saints in glory should bring sure and
kindly greeting; And for my lost love a requiem I play, as for the dead. And I cling unto my music for the solace man's unkindness Has denied me, since my comrades greet my story
with a smile ;
There are loves, they say, in plenty, and they marvel at
my blindness; But the man who's seen the sun's face sees no other for
Now the vast cathedral darkens, and the night comes
slowly creeping From the altar round the arches that o'erhang the
chancel side; And I leave the saints in silence as they solemnly lie
sleeping, And to-morrow brings the gladness of the holy Christ.
And at Matins as aforetime I shall take my humble
station, In the rood-loft, at the service that we sing on
Christmas Day; While the anthem peals around me, and the Church's
jubilation Gives good-will to all men, chanting “In excelsis gloria.”
H. SAVILE CLARKE.
DESTINY OF AMERICA. .
YEARCH creation round,
find a coun. try that presents so sublime a view, so interesting an anticipation ? Who shall say for what purpose mysterious Providence may not have designed her! Who shall say that when in its follies or its crimes, the Old World may have buried all the pride of its power, and all the pomp of its civilization, human nature may not find its destined renovation in the New! When its temples and its trophies shall have moldered into dust, when the glories of its name shall be but the legend of tradition, and the light of its achievements live only in song, philosophy will revive again in the sky of her Franklin, and glory rekindle at the urn of her Washington.
where can you
Is this the vision of romantic fancy? Is it even im. probable? I appeal to history! Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can all the allusions of ambition realized, can all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all the achievements of successful heroism, or all the establishments of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions ? Alas, Troy thought so once; yet the land of Priam lives only in song! Thebes thought so once; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate! So thought Palmyra—where is she? So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan; yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens insulted by the servile, mindless, and enervate Ottoman! In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined immortality, and all its vanities, from the palace to the tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression of his footsteps ! The days of their glory are as if they had never been; and the island that was then a speck, rude and neglected, in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity of their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration of their bards! Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not one day be what Athens
is, and the young America yet soar to be what Athens was! Who shall say, when the European column shall have moldered, and the night of barbarism obscured its very ruins, that that mighty continent may not emerge from the horizon, to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant!
BALLAD OF THE WICKED NEPHEW.
T was a wicked Nephew bold
Who uprose in the night,
His penknife, sharp and bright.
Dispatch my Uncle John!
He dies and leaves a will,
Won't get a dollar-bill.
His chamber well I know,
Safe under his pillow.
Because that is the way
In Boucicault's new play."
By this the anxious moon retired
(For all the stars were in)“ 'Tis very dark,” the Nephew cried, “ But I can find
"Come forth, my trusty weapon, now !"
(Or words to that effect,) He shouted to his little blade,
Whose power he did suspect.
Then out he starts. His Uncle's door
Is thirteen doors from his :He gains the latch, which upward flies,
And straight inside he is!
One pause upon the entry stair, ,
And one upon the mat,How still the house at such an hour!
How mewless lies the cat!
" Nephew! Nephew! be not rash;
Turn back, and then turn in:
devoid of sin !
“ The gallows-tree was never built
For handsome lads like you-
Wished his young man to do).”
He will not be advised,-he stands
Beside the sleeping form,-
A tattoo for the storm.