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Still chiding, my mother would move me
To link me to gold, and old age;
Yea, verily sayeth the sage.
For winter, the frosty and drear?
My beautiful, beautiful Pierre.
Of halls decked with splendour she's telling,
I nor wealth nor their brilliancy prize ;
Oh Pierre ! be the light of thine eyes.
Ere wed with the frosty and sere?
My beautiful, beautiful Pierre ?
WE HAVE MET TO REMEMBER THE DAY.
BY JAMES FLINT.
We have met to remember the day,
When the Pilgrims first trod the bleak shore That gave them a home far away
From the home they should visit no more.
We will not forget what we owe them
For all they have left us in trust;
We still to their fame will be just.
We have met to remember their deeds,
The privations and toils they endured, Though the heart o'er their sufferings bleeds,
It exults in the rights they secured ;
A heritage sacred and dear;
Ere their sons cease their names to revere.
We'll remember the faith of our sires,
Their sun in their sojourn of gloom, That reflected from heaven's far spires,
The bright halo of hope on the tomb. 'Twas to worship their God unmolested
They left the loved scenes of their youth, For a land which no tyrant infested;
Self-exiled for freedom and truth.
We'll remember their wisdom, who reared,
On the pillars of justice and right, A republic by sages revered,
And dreaded by kings in their might. Of their skill and prophetic discerning,
New England a monument stands, In her morals, religion, and learning,
The glory and pride of all lands.
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 happy, 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.