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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.
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 :
Though galling the bondage, and bitter the thrall: When a voice like the earthquake's revealed the dis
'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
'TIS STRANGE, THE MYSTIC LINK THAT
BY JAMES MARTIN.
'Tis strange, the mystic link that binds
Remembrance to the past,
Of hopes too bright to last.
A tone of music fled,
Of feelings long since dead.
"Tis strange an echo has the power
To wake the past again-
And bring back all our pain.
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!
How rapid is their flight !
Those halcyon days, when the young thought
Was free from stern alloy,
How transient was its joy.
And when we wake from our young dreams,
Alas! we sleep no more !
Their dazzling light is o'er.
They pass from off the brain;
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.