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Would, Mother! thou couldst hear me tell
How oft, amid my brief career, For sins and follies loved too well,
Hath fallen the free repentant tear! And, in the waywardness of youth,
How better thoughts have given to me Contempt for error, love for truth,
Mid sweet remembrances of thee!
The harvest of my youth is done,
And manhood, come with all its cares, Finds, garnered up within my heart,
For every flower a thousand tares. Dear Mother! couldst thou know my thoughts
Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine, The depth of feeling in my breast,
Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine !
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not !
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hack it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies !
When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave !
And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
Nigh to a grave, that was newly made,
“I gather them in! for man and boy,
“Many are with me, but still I'm alone!
“I gather them in and their final rest,
HASTE, BOATMAN, HASTE.
BY MISS CASTELLO.
Boat ahoy! boat ahoy! boat ahoy!
Haste, boatman, haste, there's not to-night
Or mist or cloud we may discover, The air is pure, the moon is bright,
Unmoor thy bark and row me over.
The nightingale at distance calls,
The willows wave amid the gloaming,
And yon fair lady awaits my coming.
Haste, boatman, such a stream and shore,
And such a star to guide a lover, Should give new vigour to thine oar,
Then take thy bark and row me over.
Dost thou not hear her soft guitar,
And softer voice, the echoes swelling? Dost thou not mark yon guiding star,
Whose rays are beaming o'er her dwelling?
OH! FLY TO THE PRAIRIE.
BY JOHN K. MITCHELL.
OH! fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me,
The woodsman delights in his trees and his shade,