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And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said
In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
Like a staff,
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
At him here,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
In the spring-
Where I cling.
I THINK OF THEE.
BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
I THINK of thee, when morning springs
From sleep with plumage bathed in dew, And, like a young bird, lifts her wings
Of gladness on the welkin blue.
And when, at noon, the breath of love
O'er flower and stream is wandering free And sent in music from the grove,
I think of thee I think of thee.
I think of thee, when soft and wide
The evening spreads her robes of light, And, like a young and timid bride,
Sits blushing in the arms of Night.
And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea, And stars are forth like blessed things,
I think of thee-I think of thee.
I think of thee ;-that eye of flame,
Those tresses falling bright and free, That brow where “ Beauty writes her name,
On fancy rush ;-I think of thee.
BY W. H. TIMROD.
They slander thee, “old traveller,"
Who say that thy delight
In thy wantonness of might,
Before thy restless wings,
To a thousand brighter things.
Thou passest o'er the battle-field
Where the dead lie stiff and stark, Where nought is heard, save the vulture's scream,
And the gaunt wolf's famished bark.
From the blood enriched clay,
To the rustic's merry lay.
Thou hast strewn the lordly palace
In ruin o'er the ground,
Where the harp was wont to sound;
With the dwellings of the poor, And a thousand happy hearts enjoy
What one usurped before.
"Tis true thy progress layeth
Full many a loved one low, And for the brave and beautiful
Thou hast caused our tears to flow; But “ always" near the couch of death
Nor thou, nor we can stay,
Dries all our tears away.
BY J. 0. ROCKWELL.
List! thou child of wind and sea,
Tell me of the far off deep,
And the waters never sleep.
In its works of stern despair,
In deep caves, the mermaid's hair.
Wave! now on the golden sands,
Silent as thou art, and broken, Bearest thou not from distant strands
To my heart some pleasant token?