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, That blood of honest fame, While the language, free and bold, How the vault of heaven rung, 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 thou, with cheek of rosiest hue, 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, 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: THE HUMA BIRD. BY LOUISA P. SMITH. FLY on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird, Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard, In the home of "care-worn things:" The fields of upper air are thine, I would never wander, bird, like thee, So near this place again; With wing and spirit once light and free, They should wear no more the chain There are many things like thee, bright bird; Our air is with them forever stirred, But still in air they stay. And Happiness, like thee, fair one, Is ever hovering o'er, But rests in a land of brighter sun, On a waveless, peaceful shore, FROM YAMOYDEN. BY R. C. SANDS. THEY say, that, afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake, unruffled and sparkling, is spread; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers. There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom, Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire, And he who has sought to set foot on its shore, |