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THERE'S BEAUTY IN THE DEEP.
BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.
THERE's beauty in the deep :The wave is bluer than the sky; And, though the light shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow That sparkle in the depths below; The rainbow's tints are only made When on the waters they are laid, And sun and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine. There's beauty in the deep.
There's music in the deep :-
There's music in the deep.
There's quiet in the deep :Above, let tides and tempests rave, And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend,
There's quiet in the deep.
ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON.
BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
It is not the fear of death
That damps my brow,
I ask thee now;
And a quiet heart-
Ere I depart.
I can give up my mother's look
My sister's kiss;
A death like this!
I burned to win
I glory in.
Thine is the power to give,
Thine to deny,
Calmness to die.
By my dying breath,
By a soldier's death!
THEY SAY THAT NE'ER BY FORTUNE'S
BY GEORGE D. STRONG.
They say that ne'er by fortune's gale
My hero's brow was fanned,
No powdered menials stand :
That lures but to betray ?
To cheer his lonely way!
They tell me that my charmer owns
No proud ancestral line,
Alas, o'er many a courtier's brow
Dark falsehood's ensigns wave,
Foul passion's palsied slave.
Then cease, the fruitless theme forego,
Nor mock my pure desire;
That kindles to expire !
Be mine the blissful lot
In palace or in cot.
HOME, SWEET HOME.
BY J. HOWARD PAYNE.
Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,
The birds singing gaily that came at my call;
Home, home, sweet, sweet hone,
BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH.
How dear to this neart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood,
And ev'ry loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I bail as a treasure ;
For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can ld. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ;