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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;
For, threatening, lower those skies so mild,

Whose faithless day-star dawned for me.

From tears released to speedy rest,

From youthful dreams which all beguiled,
To quiet slumber on thy breast,

O, holy Virgin, call thy child.

Joy from my darkling soul is filed,

And haggard phantoms haunt me wild ;
Despair assails, and Hope is dead :

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,
Of melody sweetest and clearest,

If tried by a delicate hand;
But its workmanship, love, is so fine,

At a single rude touch it would break.
Then, oh! be the magic key mine,

Its fairy-like whispers to wake!
And there's one little tune it can play,

That I fancy all others above-
You learned it of Cupid one day-
It begins with and ends with “I love !"

“I love !"
It begins with and ends with “I love !"

A PORTRAIT.

BY NATHAN C. BROOKS.

THROUGH the gazer's breast is stealing

A pure rapture sweet and wild;
While thy face, its charms revealing,

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.

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NEW ENGLAND.

BY MRS. GILMAN.

NEW ENGLAND, New England, my home o'er the sea!
My heart, as I wander, turns fondly to thee;
For bright rests the sun on thy clear winding streams,
And soft o'er thy meadows the moon pours her beams.

New England, New England, my home o'er the sea!
The wanderer's heart turns in fondness to thee.

Thy breezes are healthful, and clear are thy rills, And the harvest waves proudly and rich on thy hills. Thy maidens are fair, and thy yeoman are strong, And thy rivers run blithely thy valleys among.

New England, New England, my home o'er the sea! The wanderer's heart turns in fondness to thee.

There's home in New England, where dear ones of mine
Are thinking of me and the days of lang syne,
And blest be the hour when, my pilgrimage o'er,
I shall sit by the hearth-stone and leave it no more.

New England, New England, my home o'er the sea !
My heart, as I wander, turns fondly to thee.

WHO HAS ROBBED THE OCEAN CAVE.

BY JOHN SHAW.

Who has robbed the ocean cave,

To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who from India's distant wave,
For thee, those pearly treasures drew ?

Who, from yonder orient sky,
Stole the morning of thine eye?

Thousand charms, thy form to deck,

From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,
On thy breath their fragrance borne.

Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind,

Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
Nor in the circling air a heart.

Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, oh take that heart from me.

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