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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.

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,
Where mortals to their Maker bend ?

Can your pure spirits fear
The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew
The crimes for which we come to weep.

Penance is not for you,
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

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,
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

And join the choirs that sing
In yon blue dome not reared with hands
Or, if ye stay,
To note the consecrated hour

Teach me the airy way,
And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,
On upward wings could I but fly,

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'Twere heaven indeed,
Through fields of trackless light to soar,

On nature's charms to feed,
And nature's own great God adore.

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 ;
As it dashed on the spray-lighted surge,

From its centre there came forth a song.

The spirits of air and of water

Were mingling their voices in one;
And the winds and the waves seemed to loiter
To catch the sweet notes of the tune.

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;
She sayeth I ne'er should regret thee;

But time maketh worldly the old ;
Ah! what though she urge me to leave thee,

To wed with the frosty and sere,
This heart tells me ne'er to deceive thee,

My beautiful, beautiful Pierre.

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