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But fame called the youth to the field,
His banner waved over his head; He gave his guitar for a shield,
But soon he laid low with the dead : While she o'er her young hero bending,
Received his expiring adieu ; • I die while my country defending,
With heart to my lady love true.” "Oh! death!" then she sighed, “I am thine ;
I tear off the roses of beauty ; For the grave of my hero is mine,
He died true to love and to duty.”
THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
BY JOHN S. PIERPONT.
The pilgrim fathers—where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
As they break along the shore;
When the May-Flower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.
The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide ;
To stay its waves of pride.
When the heavens looked dark, is gone ;
Is seen, and then withdrawn.
The pilgrim exile-sainted name!
The hill, whose icy brow
In the morning's flame burns now.
On the hill-side and the sea,
But the pilgrim-where is he?
The pilgrim fathers are at rest :
When Summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
On that hallowed spot is cast ;
Looks kindly on that spot last.
The pilgrim spirit has not fled :
With the holy stars, by night.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.
ROMAN CATHOLIC CHANT.
BY J. A. HILLHOUSE.
O, HOLY VIRGIN, call thy child;
Her spirit longs to be with thee;
Whose faithless day-star dawned for me.
From tears released to speedy rest,
From youthful dreams which all beguiled,
O, holy Virgin, call thy child.
Joy from my darkling soul is filed,
And haggard phantoms haunt me wild ;
0, holy Virgin, call thy child.
YOUR HEART IS A MUSIC-BOX, DEAREST!
BY MRS. OSGOOD.
Your heart is a music-box, dearest !
With exquisite tunes at command,
If tried by a delicate hand;
At a single rude touch it would break.
Its fairy-like whispers to wake!
That I fancy all others above-
“I love !"
BY NATHAN C. BROOKS.
THROUGH the gazer's breast is stealing
A pure rapture sweet and wild;
Fair as snowflakes undefiled,
Speaks a woman with the feeling
And the lightness of a child.
With thy locks like sunlight streaming,
'Thou art beauty's self, fair one; With thy cheek in beauty beaming,
From high thoughts and feelings won; And thy lustrous eye outgleaming
A bright sabre in the sun.
As the bird in tropic bowers
Ever waves its sportive wing, Mid the bright and balmy flowers,
Without voice of sorrowing; So mid joy and smiles, thy hours
Flit, thou light and fairy thing.
May no cloud of earthly sorrow,
Shade thy brow or dim with tears Thy bright eye ; but may each morrow
Shed a rainbow o'er life's fears, And a milder radiance borrow From the gentle flight of years.