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Though ages long have passed

Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravelled seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins,
And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?

While the language, free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,

From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,

That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts,

Between let Ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the Sun; Yet, still, from either beach,

The voice of blood shall reach,

More audible than speech,

"We are One!"

14*

THINE IS THE SPRING OF LIFE.

BY HENRY PICKERING.

THINE is the spring of life, dear boy,
And thine should be its flowers;
Thine, too, should be the voice of joy,
To hasten on the hours:

And thou, with cheek of rosiest hue,
With winged feet, shouldst still
Thy sometime frolic course pursue
O'er lawn and breezy hill.

Not so! What means this foolish heart,

And verse as idly vain?

Each hath his own allotted part

Of pleasure and of pain:

And while thou canst the hours beguile, (Thus patiently reclined,)

I would not quench that languid smile,
Or see thee less resigned.

Some are condemned to roam the earth, A various fate to share,

Scarce destined, from their very birth,

To know a parent's care.

To thee, sweet one, repose was given,

Yet not without alloy;

That thou might'st early think of heaven, The promised seat of joy ;

That thou might'st know what love supreme Pervades a mother's breast

Flame quenchless as the heavenly beam,

The purest and the best.

William, that love which shadows thee,

Is eminently mine:
Oh that my riper life could be
Deserving it as thine!

THE HUMA BIRD.

BY LOUISA P. SMITH.

FLY on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,

Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
May lose its note of mirth.
Fly on, nor seek a place of rest

In the home of "care-worn things:"
"Twould dim the light of thy shining crest,
And thy brightly burnished wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.

The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free;
I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.

I would never wander, bird, like thee,

So near this place again;

With wing and spirit once light and free,

They should wear no more the chain
With which they are bound and fettered here,
Forever struggling for skies more clear.

There are many things like thee, bright bird;
Hopes as thy plumage gay;

Our air is with them forever stirred,

But still in air they stay.

And Happiness, like thee, fair one,

Is ever hovering o'er,

But rests in a land of brighter sun,

On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of "living waters" springs.

FROM YAMOYDEN.

BY R. C. SANDS.

THEY say, that, afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake, unruffled and sparkling, is spread; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;
And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depressed,
All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east ;
There the bright eye of nature in mild glory hovers :
'Tis the land of the sunbeam, the green isle of lovers.

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss
The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss;
Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs
Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires
The dance and the revel, mid forests that cover,
On high, with their shade, the green isle of the lover.

But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire,
When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,
Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle,
Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile;
From beauty, there, valour and strength are not rovers,
And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplexed, has beheld it no more;
It fleets on the vision, deluding the view;
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue:
Oh, who, in this vain world of wo, shall discover
The home undisturbed, the green isle of the lover!

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