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WHILE ZEPHYRS FAN THE VERDANT
BY JOSIAS LYNDON ARNOLD.
WHILE zephyrs fan the verdant groves,
And flowrets grace the plain,
And flaunt in pleasure's train ;
My anxious footsteps tend ; What joy
great as viewing there A lover and a friend ?
To her I fear not to disclose
The feelings of my heart ;
In all my joys, a part.
And bid her sorrows end ;
A lover and a friend.
She's youthful, innocent, and gay,
Of perfect mind and mien;
But though each shepherd's heart she charms,
And they before her bend,
A lover and a friend.
MARY WILL SMILE.
BY WILLIAM CLIFTON.
The morn was fresh, and pure the gale,
When Mary, from her cot a rover, Plucked many a wild rose of the vale
To bind the temples of her lover. As near his little farm she strayed,
Where birds of love were ever pairing, She saw her William in the shade,
The arms of ruthless war preparing. “Though now," he cried, “I seek the hostile plain, Mary shall smile, and all be fair again.”
She seized his hand, and “Ah !" she cried,
“ Wilt thou, to camps and war a stranger, Desert thy Mary's faithful side,
And bare thy life to every danger ? Yet go, brave youth! to arms away!
My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee, And when the drum beats far away,
I'll drop a silent tear and bless thee. Returned with honor from the hostile plain, Mary will smile, and all be fair again.
“The bugles through the forest wind,
The woodland soldiers call to battle,Be some protecting angel kind,
And guard thy life when cannons rattle !"
In sunshine, when the storm is over,
The blush of promise to her lover.
BY SELLECK OSBORN.
I've seen, in twilight's pensive hour,
In awful ruin stand ;
Majestically grand !
I've seen, mid sculptured pride, the tomb
Unconscious of their fame;
And gained-an empty name!
I've seen in death's dark palace laid,
Cadaverous and pale !
The mistress of the vale.
I've seen, where dungeon damps abide,
In morbid fancy rave;
Learned, generous, and brave.
Nor dome, nor tower, in twilight shade,
To ruin all consigned
The ruins of the mind !
I AM COME TO THIS SYCAMORE TREE.
BY WILLIAM MAXWELL.
I am come to this sycamore tree,
And lay myself down in its shade:
The hopes of my youth are betrayed.
My murmurs shall mingle with thine ;
The sadness I feel is divine.
Hope took me, a gay little child,
And soothed me to sleep on her breast, And, like my own mother, she smiled
O’er the dreams of my innocent rest. Then beauty came whispering sweet,
Every word had a magical power ; And pleasure, with eyes of deceit,
Enticed me to enter her bower.
There love showed his glittering dart,
Just bathed in the nectar of bees; While fancy persuaded my heart,
That his only design was to please. And fame held her wreath of renown,
All blooming with laurels divine ; And promised the flourishing crown, To circle these temples of mine.