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Oh, Jerusalem! mourn through thy halls,
I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAYS.
BY B. B. THATCHER.
EARTH is the spirit's rayless cell; But then, as a bird soars home to the shade Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made, In bonds no more to dwell;
So will its weary wing
Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done, And its breath flow free, as a bird's in the sun, And the soft, fresh gales of spring.
O, not more sweet the tears
Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,
Than the dews of age on the "hoary head,"
Nor dearer, mid the foam
Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar,
Wings, like a dove, to fly!
The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;-
When, when will Death draw nigh!
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.
BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.
ALL hail! thou noble land,
O stretch thy mighty hand,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore:
For thou, with magic might,
The Genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep,
Then let the world combine-
Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,
O'er untravelled seas to roam,
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins,
While the language, free and bold,
How the vault of heaven rung,
While the manners, while the arts,
Still cling around our hearts,
Our joint communion breaking with the Sun;
Yet, still, from either beach,
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
"We are One !"
THINE IS THE SPRING OF LIFE.
BY HENRY PICKERING.
THINE is the spring of life, dear boy,
And thou, with cheek of rosiest hue,
Not so! What means this foolish heart,
Each hath his own allotted part
Of pleasure and of pain:
And while thou canst the hours beguile, (Thus patiently reclined,)
I would not quench that languid smile,
Some are condemned to roam the earth,
To thee, sweet one, repose was given,
That thou might'st early think of heaven,
That thou might'st know what love supreme
William, that love which shadows thee,
Oh that my riper life could be
THE HUMA BIRD.
BY LOUISA P. SMITH.
FLY on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
Fly on, nor seek a place of rest
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,