But thou—where'er thy choice may lead,

Unmindful of the wreck it makesOne 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.

MOURNEST THOU.

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-
Nought thy fading hopes can brighten,

Gentle child of misery?

Ay! there is a home in Heaven,

Where thy heart shall grieve no more
To spirits such as thine is given

Rest upon that peaceful shore.
Weep not then, sweet child of sorrow,

O'er the hopes that erst were thine,
Calmly wait that blessed morrow

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 initre 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

honour-
A flash like the lightning's unsealed every eye,
And o'er hill-top and glen floated liberty's banner,
While round it men gathered to conquer or die !

'Twas the voice of the PRESS—on the startled ear

breaking, In giant-born prowess, like Pallas of old : 'Twas the flash of intelligence gloriously waking

A glow on the cheek of the noble and bold; And tyranny's minions, o'erawed and affrighted,

Sought a lasting retreat in the cloister and cowl, And the chains which bound nations in ages benighted

Were cast to the haunts of the bat and the owl.

Then hail to the Press! chosen guardian of freedom!

Strong sword-arm of justice! bright sunbeam of truth! We pledge to her cause, (and she has but to need

them,) The strength of our manhood, the fire of our youth: Should despot e'er dare to impede her free soaring

Or bigot to fetter her flight with his chain, We swear that the earth shall close o'er our deploring,

Or view her in gladness and freedom again.

But no!-to the day-dawn of knowledge and glory,

A far brighter noontide-refulgence succeeds; And our art shall embalm, through all ages, in story, Her champion who triumphs-her martyr who

bleeds And proudly her sons shall recall their devotion,

While millions shall listen to honour and bless, Till there bursts a response from the heart's strong

emotion, And the earth echoes deep with “Lung life to the

PRESS !”

'TIS STRANGE, THE MYSTIC LINK THAT

BINDS.

BY JAMES MARTIN.

'Tis strange, the mystic link that binds

Remembrance to the past,
Whose faintest murmuring sound reminds

Of hopes too bright to last.
For ever and anon there steals

A tone of music fled,
Which to the mind a glimpse reveals

Of feelings long since dead.

"Tis strange an echo has the power

To wake the past again-
Recall to view each vanished hour,

And bring back all our pain.
In vain, alas! we try to fling

Its weight from off the heartThe very thought will quickly sting,

And fresher grief impart.

Oh! what a price does memory pay

For visions of delight!
For boyhood's dreams long past away,

How rapid is their flight !

Those halcyon days, when the young thought

Was free from stern alloy,
Ere sorrow came and rudely taught

How transient was its joy.

And when we wake from our young dreams,

Alas! we sleep no more !
Too like the rainbow's glorious beams

Their dazzling light is o'er.
Those dreams are spectres of the mind-

They pass from off the brain;
But, oh! the void they leave behind

They never come again!

WHEN THOSE DREAMS THAT ENCHANT.

BY FRANCIS PANTON, JUN.

WHEN those dreams that enchant us in boyhood are

over, And feelings forsake us that pleasure could rouse ; When the myrtle, entwined as a crown for the lover,

Falls leafless and dead from the brow of the spouse; When the full flowing wine-cup no longer can borrow

Those smiles that can brighten its billows alone: Then we'll think of those hours we have squandered

with sorrow; But oh! while they last, they're too lovely to shun.