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HISTORIANS, poets, painters, all,
Yes, all mankind, since Adam's fall,
Have toasted with a vivid glare
The glowing charms of ancient fair,
But I am one of those blind-sided churls
Who think none so pretty as the Yankee girls.

Their unassuming mien imparts
The spotless essence of their hearts;
Their youthful chasteness, title page
The volumes of unsullied age,
While peace and war alike unfurls
The virtues of the Yankee girls.

The Yankee girls! oh what a charm!
'Twas that which nerved Columbia's arm!
Which arm in spite of tyranny
Declared this soil forever free;
Then while our standard round us furls,
The watchword be, the Yankee girls !

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“What shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue."

SKIRTING with gold Heaven's tranquil blue,

Aurora opes the smiling dawn: Through drapery of resplendent hue,

Hope breaks—the sun of manhood's morn.
As pale the stars before the day,

Melting to nothing in its eye,
So fade in young hope's glowing ray,

The stars that gemmed the infant's sky.
Long, pleasant shadows throws the morning sun-
Hope too, foreshadows large, the good unwon.

The sun has risen above the wave

It looks down on the mountain's browThe shadow that the morning gave

In measure vast-where is it now? So shrinks hope's promise-still is man

Panting in his meridian dayThe phantoms with which morn

In hope's bright dawning-where are they ; Noon breaks the word of promise made to morn: Hope of its gaudy dawn-dreams all, is shorn.

As gilds the west Sol's fading light,

Strong shadows back on earth are cast: Hope turns to Heaven in ardour bright

Vesting in twilight shades the past : Eve welcomes, in its holy gloom,

The birth-night of another dawnHope's setting rays the grave illume,

From whence will break eternal morn: Shadowless day the waking soul will viewMan, perfect made, will shades no more pursue.



I loved thee long and dearly,

Florence Vane;
My life's bright dream and early

Hath come again;
I renew in my fond vision

My heart's dear pain,
My hopes, and thy derision,

Florence Vane.

The ruin lone and hoary,

The ruin old
Where thou didst hark my story,

At even told

That spot-the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain-
I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;
Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;
Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.
Would I had loved thee never,

Florence Vane!

But fairest, coldest, wonder!

Thy glorious clay
Lieth the green sod under-

Alas the day!
And it boots not to remember

Thy disdain-
To quicken love's pale ember,

Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,
The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep;
May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane
Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane!



THE azure smile of summer eyes

May charm the young and gay,
But those where sorrow's shadow lies,

Like winter's sundown ray,
Are dearer to the desert heart

That all its loneness feels,
As answering tears will always start

Where gloomy music steals.

Our feelings darken, like the rays

Of twilight through a cloud,
Shading the bloom of boyhood's days,

And hopes, unbreathed aloud :
Hopes—that have cheered us but to cheat,

And gone—to come no more,
Save when in funeral dreams we meet

The forms, so loved of yore.

O sing the mourning songs, my child,

The bleak wild songs of old,
O'er which fond eyes have wept and smiled,

That now are closed, and cold.
Eyes--that life's weeping passions wet

Once with enjoyment bright,
Ere the beams of human bliss had set

In memory's moonless night.

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