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'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 ST

GE, 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.

Now! now cull the dew-dripping rosebud and braid it.

While it nestles the first smile of morn in its breast; Soon the withering gaze of the day-god may fade it,

And the rose may be flung from the brow it caressed. And soon, like the rose, may some joy that entwined us,

Fade from friendship's gay circle and never return; Of the past, memory's mirror may sadly remind us,

And the spirit but gaze on its shadows to mourn.

Then round with the bowl-oh! now let us drain it,

And bask in the beam that is shed o'er its brim ; Soon the pitiless lip of old Time may profane it,

And his sullying breath bid its lustre be diin. Oh! thus may my spirit, when death shall unbind it,

Glide lightly away like the light rosy wave; And as dear be the memory that lingers behind it,

As the loveliest dream that the wine-cup e'er gave.

A GENTLE BREEZE FROM HER HIGH BROW.

BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.

A GENTLE breeze from her high brow

Throws back her raven hair,
Oh, gladness has no longer now

Her wonted empire there !

That brow with clouds is overcast,

That cheek is wan and paledWhat spell has o'er her spirit passed,

And what her heart assailed ?

Another gaze: a tear is there

The effort was in vain,
When sorrow is too deep to bear,

Who shall its tears restrain ?
Now the deep fountain is unsealed,

The gushing waters rise, Her agony is all revealed

In those o'erflowing eyes !

Upon her hand a diamond rare

Reflects the setting sun,
But where is he who placed it there

When their young hearts were one ? Oh, in that word the secret lies,

For they are one no more! Joy in the faithful bosom dies

When Love's sweet dream is o'er.

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