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Then say, with me,
Love, wilt thou flee,
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
The darkness which shrouded America's name; Long shall their valour in battle that lightened, Live in the brilliant escutcheons of fame :
Dark where the torrents flow,
And the rude tempests blow, The storm-clad spirit of Albion raves ;
Long shall she mourn the day,
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,)
There, on its raging tide,
The bulwark of freedom, protected by heaven;
There shall her haughty foe,
Bow to her prowess low,
The Pillar of Glory, the sea that enlightens,
Shall last till eternity rocks on its base,
Wide o'er the stormy deep,
Where the rude surges sweep,
Honour shall give it light,
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,
Compassed with rays of light,
Hovers he o'er the fight ;
WHY SHOULD WE SIGH?
BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.
Why should we sigh when Fancy's dream,
The ray that shone mid youthful tears, Departing, leaves no kindly gleam,
To cheer the lonely waste of years ? Why should we sigh ?—The fairy charm
That bound each sense in folly's chain Is broke, and Reason, clear and calm,
Resumes her holy rights again.
Why should we sigh that earth no more
Claims the devotion once approved ? That joys endeared, with us are o'er,
And gone are those these hearts have loved ? Why should we sigh ?-Unfading bliss
Survives the narrow grasp of time; And those that asked our tears in this,
Shall render smiles in yonder clime.
TOM MOORE, AGAIN WE'RE MET.
BY JOHN EVERETT.
Tom MOORE, again we're met
By the sparkles of thine eye,
Thou art glad as well as I.
Ere our meeting shall be o'er,
With our healths to thee, Tom Moore.
For thy boyish songs of woman
Thrown about like unstrung pearls, Ere thy armed spirit's summon,
Bade thee leave thy bright-haired girls ; For thy satire's quenchless arrows
On the foes thy country bore, For thy song of Erin's sorrows,
Here's a health to thee, Tom Moore.
Drink to Moore, drink to Moore
What though England renounce him, Her dark days shall soon be o'er,
And her brightest band surround him. In the land, then, of the vine,
To thee its glittering drops we pour, And in warmest, reddest wine,
Drink a health to thee, Tom Moore.
IS IT THE WELCOME ROAR.
BY THOMAS 0. FOLSOM.
Is it the welcome roar
Of thundering signal gun ?-
Rending night's robe of dun.
The joyous call to war,
The cry to arms-hurrah !
From beauty's straining arms
And banquet pleasures spring,
Our proud old banner bring;
Clatters the ponderous car,
And blithely shout-hurrah !
The early dawn shall glance
On the long gleaming line,
And burnished bayonet shine;
As trumpets ring afar,-
His wreaths of fame--hurrah!