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But tears are purer tests of truth

Keep old affections bright,
Long after we outlive our youth,

And life 's-in waneing light.

TO THE MEMORY OF

BY C. DONALD M'LEOD.

FAREWELL, oh thou star of my being! whose smile

Was a beacon of hope to my wilderness earth; Whose voice, like an orphean lute, could beguile

The sorrow of life, till it melted to mirth. Thou art gone to a land where the eye knows no tear;

Where the brow never fades at the touch of decay; But the heart thou hast left, feels its loneliness here,

For the warmth of its summer hath faded away.

Like a sun-gilded lake, in whose waters are glassed

The forms of the roses that bloom on its shore, Thy soul-mirrored love; but death's gloomy wing passed,

And ruffled the wave till it mirrored no more. Thy flight was at twilight; the sun's golden glare

Had paled at the death of a beautiful day; But one beam, like an angel, seemed lingering there,

To light thy dear spirit in beauty away.

Farewell! the sad tears that I weep for thee now,

Are the last that my spirit shall wring from its gloom; For thy death shed a promising light o'er my brow,

That showed a glad land 'neath the veil of the tomb! I'll join thee, my bride! where eternity's how

Its iris-hued light on our union shall pour; And the spirits that death disunited below,

Shall mingle in Heaven, to sever no more!

UNFURL OUR STANDARD HIGH.

BY OWEN GRENLIFFE WARREN.

UNFURL our standard high!

Its glorious folds shall wave
Where'er the land looks to the sky,

Or ocean's surges lave!
And when, beneath its shade, the brave,

With patriotic ire,
Combat for glory or the grave,

It shall their breasts inspire
With that chivalric spark which first
Upon our foes in terror burst!

Unfurl the stripes and stars !

They evermore shall be
Victorious on the field of Mars-

Triumphant on the sea !

And when th' o'erruling fates decree

The bolt of war to throw,
Thou, sacred banner of the free,

Shalt daunt the bravest foe;
And never shall thy stars decline,
Till circling suns have ceased to shine.

I SEEK THEE NOT WHEN MIRTH IS HIGH.

BY MRS. DAPONTE.

I SEEK thee not when mirth is high,
When homage beams from every eye,

And all proclaim thee fair.
In hours like these I do not move
Around thee with light words of love,

I feel thou art too dear.

I seek thee not amid the throng
Who fascinate with voice and song,

And kneel before thee there.
Oh no, I flatter not, nor vow
When others kneel, when others bow,-

I feel thou art too dear.

The vain and giddy follow thee;
They proffer love's idolatry,

They murmur in thine ear!

Ah, little effort for that train
Love's outward agony to feign,

They feel not thou art dear.

Believe that yet I love thee well,
My soul yet owns the secret spell

That whispers thou art dear-
The spell that makes all language weak,
That sends the fever to my cheek

Whenever thou art near.

THE SEA-BIRD.

BY ANNA MARIA WELLS.

SEA-BIRD! haunter of the wave,

Delighting o'er its crest to hover; Half engulfed where yawns the cave

The billow forms in rolling over; Sea-bird ! seeker of the storm!

In its shriek thou dost rejoice; Sending from thy bosom warm

Answer shriller than its voice

Bird, of nervous winged flight,

Flashing silvery to the sun, Sporting with the sea-foam white, When will thy wild course be done?

Whither tends it? Has the shore

No alluring haunt for thee?
Nook, with tangled vines grown o'er,

Scented shrub, or leafy tree?

Is the purple sea-weed rarer

Than the violet of the spring ? Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer

Than the apple's blossoming ? Shady grove and sunny slope,

Seek but these, and thou shalt meet Birds not born with storm to cope,

Hermits of retirement sweet

Where no winds too rudely swell,

But in whispers, as they pass,
Of the fragrant flow'ret tell,

Hidden in the tender grass.
There the mock-bird sings of love;

There the robin builds his nest;
There the gentle-hearted dove,

Brooding, takes her blissful rest.

Sea-bird-stay thy rapid flight:

Gone !—Where dark waves foam and dasb, Like a lone star on the night,

Far I see his white wing flash. He obeyeth God's behest,

All their destiny fulfil: Tempests some are born to breast;

Some, to worship and be still.

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