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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 !"
She sung, and as the rose appears

In sunshine, when the storm is over,
A smile beamed sweetly through her tears,

The blush of promise to her lover.
Returned in triumph from the hostile plain,
All shall be fair, and Mary smile again.

THE RUINS.

BY SELLECK OSBORN.

I've seen, in twilight's pensive hour,
The moss-clad dome, the mouldering tower,

In awful ruin stand;
That dome, where grateful voices sung,
That tower, whose chiming music rung,

Majestically grand !

I've seen, mid sculptured pride, the tomb
Where heroes slept, in silent gloom,

Unconscious of their fame;
Those who, with laurelled honours crowned,
Among their foes spread terror round,

And gained-an empty name!

I've seen in death's dark palace laid,
The ruins of a beauteous maid,

Cadaverous and pale !
That maiden who, while life remained,
O'er rival charms in triumph reigned,

The mistress of the vale.

I've seen, where dungeon damps abide,
A youth, admired in manhood's pride,

In morbid fancy rave;
He who, in reason's happier day,
Was virtuous, witty, nobly gay,

Learned, generous, and brave.

Nor dome, nor tower, in twilight shade,
Nor hero fallen, nor beauteous maid,

To ruin all consigned
Can with such pathos touch my breast
As (on the maniac's form impressed)

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 world has no pleasure for me ;

The hopes of my youth are betrayed.
Flow on, thou sweet musical stream,

My murmurs shall mingle with thine;
My spirit is wrapt in a dream,

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.

Then I said to myself in my sleep,

How lovely is all that I see !
I shall r^ver have reason to weep,

For the world is a garden to me.
But an angel came down from the skies,

And claimed me at once as her own ;
Fair truth shed her light on my eyes,

And the shades of delusion are flown.

I sigh for the dreams of my youth,

All melted away into air ;
Yet say, that the sweet light of truth

Betray my poor heart to despair ?
Ah no! I may mourn for awhile,

Till my bosom is freed from its leaven;
Then peace shall return with a smile,

And faith waft my spirit to heaven.

LOVE, THE LEAVES ARE FALLING.

BY ROBERT S. COFFIN.

Love, the leaves are falling round thee;

All the forest trees are bare ;
Winter's snow will soon surround thee,
Soon will frost thy raven hair :

Then say, with me,
Love, wilt thou flee,

Nor wait to hear sad autumn's prayer ?

For winter rude

Will soon intrude, Nor aught of summer's blushing beauties spare.

Love, the rose lies withering by thee,

And the lily blooms no more ; Nature's charms will quickly fly thee, Chilling rains around thee pour :

Oh, then with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,
Ere whirling tempests round thee roar,

And winter dread

Shall frost thy head,
And all thy raven ringlets silver o'er ?

Love, the moon is shining for thee;

All the lamps of heaven are bright;
Holy spirits glide before thee,
Urging on thy tardy flight;

Then say, with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,
Nor wait the sun's returning light ?

Time's finger rude,

Will soon intrude
Relentless, all thy blushing beauties blight.

Love, the flowers no longer greet thee,

All their lovely hues are fled!
No more the violet springs to meet thee,

Lifting slow its modest head :

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