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The bitter frown of friends estranged;
The chilling straits of fortunes changed;
All this, and more, thou 'st borne for me:
Then how can I be false to thee?

I never will!-I'lI think of thee
Till fades the power of memory!-
In weal or woe,- in gloom or glee,-
I'LL THINK OF THEE!—I'LL THINK OF THEE!

SONG.

BY MRS. CHARLES GORE.

He said my brow was fair, 'tis true;-
He said mine eye had stol'n its blue
From yon ethereal vault above !
Yet still — he never spake of love.

He said my step was light, I own ;-
He said my voice had won its tone
From some wild linnet of the grove !
Yet still — he never spake of love.
He said

my

cheek looked pale with thought;
He said my gentle looks had caught
Their modest softness from the dove !
Yet still — he never spake of love.
He said, that bright with hopes divine
The heart should be to blend with mine;
Fixed where no stormy passions move!
Yet still — he never spake of love.
He said - but wherefore should I tell
Those whispered words I loved so well?
Could I reject-could I reprove-

While still he never spake of love?
Literary Gazette.

THE FIELD OF GILBOA.

BY WILLIAM KNOX.

The sun of the morning looked forth from his throne,

And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying;
For the yell of the strife, like the thunder, had flown,

And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying.

And there lay the husband that lately was prest

To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy;
But the claws of the eagle were fixed in his breast,

And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody.

And there lay the son of the widowed and sad,

Who yesterday went from her dwelling for eyer;
Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had

On the delicate limb that had ceased not to quiver !

And there came the daughter, the delicate child,

To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary;
And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild,

To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory.

And there came the consort that struggled in vain

To stem the red tide, of a spouse that bereft her;
And there came the mother that sunk ’mid the slain,

To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her!

Oh! bloody Gilboa! a curse ever lie

Where the king and his people were slaughtered together ; May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die,

Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither! Constable's Magazine.

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.

BY ALEXANDER RODGERS.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk,
And dinna be sae rude to me,

As kiss me sae before folk.
It wouldna’ give me meikle pain,
Gin we were seen and heard by nane,
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane;

But gudesake! no before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel before folk-
Whate'er you do when out o' view,

Be cautious aye before folk !

Consider, lad, how folks will crack,
And what a great affair they 'll mak'
O naething but a simple smack,

That 's gi'en or ta'en before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk
Nor gi'e the tongue o' old and young

Occasion to come o'er folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free
As ony modest lass should be ;
But yet it doesna' do to see

Sic freedom used before folk.
Behave yoursel before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk-
I'll ne'er submit again to it;

So mind you that — before folk!

Ye tell me that my face is fair :
It may

be sae -I dinna care-
But ne'er again gar’t blush so sair

As ye hae done before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel before folk,Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye

be douce before folk !

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet :
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;-
At ony rate, it's hardly meet

To prie their sweets before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel before folk-
Gin that's the case, there's time and place,
But surely no before folk !

But gin ye really do insist
That I should suffer to be kissed,
Gae get a license frae the priest,

And mak' me yours before folk !
Behave yoursel before folk,

Behave yoursel before folk-
And when we ’re ane, baith flesh and bane,
Ye
may

tak' ten- before folk!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her First-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vowed
Unto the Temple-service. By the hand
She led him; and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God!

So passed they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, ʼmidst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reached, The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hushed Her bosom, as before her, through the day It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped In light like floating gold.— But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear, Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung, even as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide

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