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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
Are where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,

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 !
The waters at my feet

Go murmuring along-
Oh, would my life could glide

In such untroubled song!

And o'er my aching head

The fleecy cloudlets float;
And, as they flit along,

My vanished joys denote;
Light, as the breast that felt them-

False, as the love she gave
Changing, as heart of woman-

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;
But all in vain his rays

With torrid lustre dart-
So fall the pleasures of this world

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;
For lost to us are pleasure's smiles,

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 :"
Awhile, our feeble, weary steps

O'er life's dull path may roam,
But “every night we pitch our tents

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;
Ere touched by fell, destroying time,

It withering fades away.
Not like the rose of autumn, chill,

Deserted, lone, and pale,
Which, clinging to existence still,

Droops in the cheerless vale.

Thus may it be my lot to part

From life, ere cares and guile
Have changed the impulse of my heart,

And made me wear the smile,
Feigning a joy that is not felt,

And telling vows, forsooth,
That in the breast have never dwelt,

Beyond our happy youth.

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