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!

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,"
When it enters the eve of years.

Nor dearer, mid the foam

Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar,
Is a breath of balm from the unseen shore,
To him that weeps for home.

Wings, like a dove, to fly!

The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;-
O, for its home in the upper Life!

When, when will Death draw nigh!

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

ALL hail! thou noble land,
Our father's native soil!

O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore:

For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright
The world o'er!

The Genius of our clime,

From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the great sublime;
While the Tritons of the deep
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.

Then let the world combine-
O'er the main our naval line,
Like the milky way, shall shine
Bright in fame!

Though ages long have passed

Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravelled seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins,
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?

While the language, free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts,
Between let Ocean roll,

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 !"

14*

THINE IS THE SPRING OF LIFE.

BY HENRY PICKERING.

THINE is the spring of life, dear boy,
And thine should be its flowers;
Thine, too, should be the voice of joy,
To hasten on the hours:

And thou, with cheek of rosiest hue,
With winged feet, shouldst still
Thy sometime frolic course pursue
O'er lawn and breezy hill.

Not so! What means this foolish heart,
And verse as idly vain?

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,
Or see thee less resigned.

Some are condemned to roam the earth,
A various fate to share,
Scarce destined, from their very birth,
To know a parent's care.

To thee, sweet one, repose was given,
Yet not without alloy;

That thou might'st early think of heaven,
The promised seat of joy ;-

That thou might'st know what love supreme
Pervades a mother's breast-
Flame quenchless as the heavenly beam,
The purest and the best.-

William, that love which shadows thee,
Is eminently mine:

Oh that my riper life could be
Deserving it as thine!

THE HUMA BIRD.

BY LOUISA P. SMITH.

FLY on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,

Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
May lose its note of mirth.

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,
Thy place where stars shine free;
I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.