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The neat village, the school-house, and church,
Her broad hills, her deep valleys, and streams, The tall pine, the rough oak, the smooth birch,
Are all fresh in our day thoughts and dreams. 0, New England, wherever sojourning,
Thy children in sadness or mirth,
Still turn to the land of their birth.
We can never the pathways forget,
We so oft in our boyhood have trod,
And the house, where we worshipped our God. Ere we're found in our waywardness shunning
The lessons there taught us in love, Be our right hand bereft of its cunning,
And, palsied, our tongue cease to move.
ART THOU HAPPY, LOVELY LADY?
BY RUFUS DAWES.
ART thou ppy, lovely lady,
In the splendour round thee thrown, Can the jewels that array thee,
Bring the peace which must have flown?
By the vows which thou hast spoken,
That thy heart is sad and lone.
There was one that loved thee, Mary!
There was one that fondly kept
Till in agony it slept.
What love has often wept.
ONE HAPPY YEAR HAS FLED, SALL.
BY J. R. DRAKE.
ONE happy year has fled, Sall,
Since you were all my own,
The wintry storm has blown.
Nor the winter's icy air;
And it was summer there.
The summer's sun is bright, Sall,
The skies are pure in hue;
And dim their lovely blue;
But sure they will not stay;
To chase their gloom away.
In sickness and in sorrow
Thine eyes were on me still,
To charm the sense of ill.
I'd seek my bed of pain,
Those looks of love again.
Oh, pleasant is the welcome kiss,
When day's dull round is o'er, And sweet the music of the step
That meets me at the door.
I reck not when they fall,
To smile away them all.
THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.
BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear.
No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight,
waved, And pure was the current the green bank that laved.
But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,
With a glance of disgust he the landscape surveyed, With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade ;Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene.
He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of
timeCultivation has softened those features sublime ; The axe of the white man has lightened the shade, And dispelled the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.
But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye,
THE FADED ONE.
BY WILLIS G. CLARK.
Gone to the slumber which may know no waking
Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell ; Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,
In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom
Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath: