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BY MRS. GILMAN.
NEW ENGLAND, New England, my home o'er the sea!
New England, New England, my home o'er the sea!
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
New England, New England, my home o'er the sea !
WHO HAS ROBBED THE OCEAN CAVE.
BY JOHN SHAW.
Who has robbed the ocean cave,
To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who, from yonder orient sky,
Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Guard thy bosom from the day,
But one charm remains behind,
Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.
BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.
Gay, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven.
Why perch ye here,
Can your pure spirits fear
Ye never knew
Penance is not for you,
To you 'tis given To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ;
Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise,
Then spread each wing,
And join the choirs that sing
Teach me the airy way,
Above the crowd,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
'Twere heaven indeed,
On nature's charms to feed,
THE INDIAN IDEA OF THE ORIGIN OF ECHO.
BY S. J. BURR.
AWAY o'er the bright flashing billow
A little white boat flew along ;
From its centre there came forth a song.
The spirits of air and of water
Were mingling their voices in one;
And Echo, for fear she should lose it,
Came down from her green-skirted hills, And faintly repeated the music
To teach to her murmuring rills.
And still the wild sonnet's repeated
By brooks upon every mount, For Echo has taught every hillock
To sing to the notes of each fount.
As the traveller strays through the woodland,
He hears—for still Echo is thereFrom every meandering streamlet
The song of the leaves and the air.
MY BEAUTIFUL PIERRE.
BY MRS. HEWITT.
My mother doth bid me forget thee,
Ah! mother is aged and cold;
But time maketh worldly the old ;
To wed with the frosty and sere,
My beautiful, beautiful Pierre.