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THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT.
BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.
My boyhood, my boyhood ! has long since past away, And like the flowers of spring its hours have faded in
decay, And time, with all his promises, hath yielded scarce a
joy That can repay those swept away from me while yet a
The world lay fresh before me, and like a summer bird, On eager wing I rose to sing where melody was heard. The heavens were calm, the air was balm, the earth
was gemmed with flowers; And shouts of joy without alloy brought on the winged
But now I mourn my infancy as I my babes deplore, Who like bright visions flitted by, and then were seen
But when as they I past away, 0! not a tear was shed, Although my boyhood is a thing now numbered with
All radiant in their innocence, my babes again shall
live; But the bright boy that time destroyed, no power can
And of the beings manifold that breathed and moved in
me, An old man broken down with care, is all that God will
My boyhood-my manhood! have vanished like the
wind, Or eager birds that clip the air, and leave no trace be
hind. They lived—they died—both suicide, and are forever
gone. Or at the judgment I appear a myriad in one.
THE HOUSATONICK RIVER BOAT-SONG,
BY MISS SEDGWICK.
GAILY row the boat-row-
Quickly row the boat-row-
Our own Housatonick!
ZEPHYR, I ENVY THEE.
BY JOHN KEESE.
ZEPHYR, I envy thee thy bliss :
COME, TAKE THY LUTE.
BY L. L. CAMPBELL.
Come, take thy lute! attune thy voice,
Strike up some happy joyous strain, Some tones to make our hearts rejoice,
And bring their blisses back again;
That song so dear to thee and me:
'Twould sweeten death in hearing thee.
Come, take thy lute! let me but see
Once more thy fingers sweep the chords, And hear thy 'witching melody
Repeat those dear delightful words.
Dry up that tear-all thoughts of ill
That song will make us each forget; Oh do not weep-be happy still
All may be well, be happy yet.
Come, take thy lute! strike soft, and slow,
Bring back the thoughts of other hours, Ere yet our hearts were brought to know
The with’ring blight of faded flowers Ere yet a fear had dimmed our bliss,
Or yet suspense had mocked our joy, When all around was happiness,
And pleasures sped without alloy.
Yes, take thy lute: sweet tones! they speak
Of guiltless hours, and former peace: Oh cease the strain, thy crimson cheek
Bespeaks the pain ; I pray thee cease. Thou still hast feeling: yes, I see
Those bitter tears in streamlets flow; Come, mingle those sad tears with me,
And drown the thoughts that wound us so.