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Pride stern and cold,
But love is free
As thought can be,
THE FALLING TIDE UPON THE BEACH.
BY HENRY PANTON.
The falling tide upon the beach
In murmurs chides my long delay; The whispering wind in fancy speaks,
And bids me on my course away. And yet I linger near thine eyes,
As one on whom there hangs a spell ; I strive in vain-my tongue denies
The tones that form that word, “Farewell."
We'll meet no more. In after years,
Perhaps some long-neglected token Of ties now washed away in tears,
That once no power could have broken,
May call emotions to the heart
That long in it have ceased to dwell, And may again the scene impart
Where last I whispered, Fare-thee well.
the heart that once was thine May beat beneath another's power, But never from another's shrine
Can bring the sadness of this hour. With thee I've passed the morn of love
Day half his lustre will dispel ;
Will sadden at our last Farewell.
I linger still; but 'tis in vain
Nought can those careless hours restore; Procrastination adds but pain,
And only heats the tear-drop more. Come, while my eyes are filled with thee,
Ere tears thy image shall dispel ; Bright may thy future prospects be;
One kiss—forever Fare-thee-well.
“A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER.”
BY L. L. DAPONTE.
FAREWELL! how oft that word is said
By those who hope to meet again,
Bespeak the transitory pain!
All speechless will I see thee part,
Companion of my broken heart.
Nor think if cheerless I pursue
The path that thou hast marked with wo,
That joy itself can never know-
To hear thee when no other hears ;
As in thy pride of youthful years !
When life and care have dimmed thine eye,
So terrible in beauty now,
l'nchanged the glory of thy brow!
Till, guided by thy light divine,
To fit companionship with thine!
But thou—where'er thy choice may lead,
Unmindful of the wreck it makes One heart shall follow thee with prayer,
And bless thee, while for thee it breaks. Then if at last thy lot may prove
One worthy of thy love to see, The rapture of that love be his,
The triumph mine to die for thee.
BY E. A. STANSBURY.
Mourn'st thou o'er those hours departed
Which have fled on rosy wing, When the loved, the gentle-hearted,
Bloomed around thy being's spring Sigh’st thou for the friends that perished
While their hearts were fresh and young; Forms that once thy bosom cherished,
Slumb'ring now the graves among ?
Dost thou weep, lone child of sorrow,
O'er the hopes that erst were thine, Looking sadly for the morrow
Which again shall bid them shine ?
Is there nought thy cares can lighten
Nought can bid thy tears be dry-
Gentle child of misery?
Ay! there is a home in Heaven,
Where thy heart shall grieve no more
Rest upon that peaceful shore.
O’er the hopes that erst were thine,
Which shall bid them brighter shine!
THE BIRTH OF PRINTING.
BY HORACE GREELY.
Long slumbered the world in the darkness of error,
And ignorance brooded o'er earth like a pall : To the mitre and crown men abased them in terror,
Though galling the bondage, and bitter the thrall: When a voice like the earthquake's revealed the dis