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Oh, Jerusalem! mourn through thy halls,
And bend to the dust in thy shame, For the doom that thy spirit appals,
Is famine, the sword, and the flame !
Earth is the spirit's rayless cell;
In bonds no more to dwell ;
So will its weary wing
And the soft, fresh gales of spring.
O, not more sweet the tears
When it enters the eve of years.
Nor dearer, mid the foam
To him that weeps for home.
Wings, like a dove, to fly! -
When, when will Death draw nigh!
ALL hail! thou noble land,
Our father's native soil !
Gigantic grown by toil,
For thou, with magic might,
The world o'er!
The Genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep,
While the Tritons of the deep
Then let the world combine-
Bright in fame!
Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,
O'er untravelled seas to roam,-
And shall we not proclaim
By its chains ?
While the language, free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,
How the vault of heaven rung,
While this, with reverence meet,
Round our coast;
While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Between let Ocean roll,
Yet, still, from either beach,
“ We are One!”
THINE IS THE SPRING OF LIFE.
BY HENRY PICKERING.
Thine is the spring of life, dear boy,
And thine should be its flowers;
To hasten on the hours :
With winged feet, shouldst still
O'er lawn and breezy hill.
Not so! What means this foolish heart,
And verse as idly vain?
Of pleasure and of pain :
(Thus patiently reclined,) I would not quench that languid smile,
Or see thee less resigned.
Some are condemned to roam the earth,
A various fate to share,
To know a parent's care.
Yet not without alloy ;
The promised seat of joy ;
That thou might'st know what love supreme
Pervades a mother's breast
The purest and the best.-
Is eminently mine:
Deserving it as thine !
THE HUMA BIRD.
BY LOUISA P. SMITH.
Fly on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,
May lose its note of mirth.
In the home of “care-worn things :" 'Twould dim the light of thy shining crest,
And thy brightly burnished wings, To dip them where the waters glide That flow from a troubled earthly tide.
The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free;
Above life's stormy sea.