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Oh, yes! man, while stemming the storm
Though seeming forgetful of love, Still worships the heart and the form
That came to his breast like a dove
TO IANTHE IN HEAVEN.
BY E. A. POE.
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pineA green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine All wreathed around about with flowers
And the flowers, they all were mine.
But the dream, it could not last;
And the star of Hope did rise But to be overcast.
A voice from out the Future cries, “Onward !”—while o'er the Past,
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies, Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas ! alas! with me,
Ambition, all, iś o'er; “No more, no more, no more"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar.
And all my hours are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
And where thy footstep gleams,
By what eternal streams.
THE BREEZES FAN MY BROW.
BY JAMES F. OTIS.
The breezes fan my brow,
And softly round me play ; They're pathless and unchained
Would I were free as they !
Go murmuring along-
In such untroubled song!
And o'er my aching head
The fleecy cloudlets float;
My vanished joys denote;
False, as the love she gave
And fleeting as the wave!
Far on yon mountain-top
There is a wreath of snow; And on its breast the sun
Pours forth his crimson glow;
With torrid lustre dart-
Upon my frozen heart!
A WEARY TIME IS OURS, MY LOVE.
BY ROBERT M. CHARLTON.
A WEARY time is ours, my love,
A weary time is ours;
And withered are its flowers :
The ray that cheered our youthful hearts
Hath vanished from our sight, And hope's refulgent, beaming day
Hath faded into night.
How joyous, in our early youth,
Did all these scenes appear! And what hath called to manhood's eye
The bright, yet mournful tear? Ah, what hath called ? go ask the heart,
Which, torn by grief and shame, Will answer, joy is but a spell
That passeth as it came.
Well, let it pass : a few more suns
Will change again the scene, And we shall pass from earth's vile dross,
To purer “ray serene :"
O'er life's dull path may roam,
A day's march nearer home.”
HE WHO DECAYS IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.
BY THOMAS I. CHARLTON.
He who decays in youthful prime,
Dies like the rose of May;
It withering fades away.
Deserted, lone, and pale,
Droops in the cheerless vale.
Thus may it be my lot to part
From life, ere cares and guile
And made me wear the smile,
And telling vows, forsooth,
Beyond our happy youth.