I AM COME TO THIS SYCAMORE TREE. BY WILLIAM MAXWELL. I AM come to this sycamore tree, The sadness I feel is divine. Hope took me, a gay little child, And soothed me to sleep on her breast, There love showed his glittering dart, That his only design was to please. Then I said to myself in my sleep, I sigh for the dreams of my youth, Yet say, that the sweet light of truth 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; 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, Of Nor aught of summer's blushing beauties spare. Love, the rose lies withering by thee, And the lily blooms no more; Love, wilt thou flee, Ere whirling tempests round thee roar, Shall frost thy head, And all thy raven ringlets silver o'er? Love, the moon is shining for thee; 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, Then say, with me, Love, wilt thou flee, And leave this darkling desert dread? And seek a clime Of joy sublime, Where fadeless flowers a lasting fragrance shed? THE PILLAR OF GLORY. BY EDWIN C. HOLLAND. HAIL to the heroes whose triumphs have brightened And the rude tempests blow, When, in the vengeful fray, Liberty walked like a god on the waves. The ocean, ye chiefs, (the region of glory, Where fortune has destined Columbia to reign,) Gleams with the halo and lustre of story, That curl round the wave as the scene of her fame: There, on its raging tide, Shall her proud navy ride, The bulwark of freedom, protected by heaven; Bow to her prowess low, There shall renown to her heroes be given. The Pillar of Glory, the sea that enlightens, Where the rude surges sweep, Its lustre shall circle the brows of the brave; Triumph shall keep it bright, Long as in battle we meet on the wave. Already the storm of contention has hurled From the grasp of Old England the trident of war, The beams of our stars have illumined the world, Unfurled our standard beats proud in the air: Wild glares the eagle's eye, Swift as he cuts the sky, Marking the wake where our heroes advance; Hovers he o'er the fight; Albion is heartless-and stoops to his glance. |