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TO A STOLEN RING.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

O For thy history now! Hadst thou a tongue
To whisper of thy secrets, I would lay
Upon thy jewel'd tracery my ear,
And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn
In her fine spirit's pride, and thou hast felt
The bounding of the haughtiest pulse that e'er
Sprang from the heart of woman, and thy gold
Has lain upon her forehead in the hour
Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast,
And life was but a bitterness, with all
Its vividness and beauty. She has gazed,
In her fair girlhood, on thy snowy pearls,
And mused away the hours, and she has cast
On thee the flashing of her downcast eye,
When a strong tone was eloquent in her ear;
And thou hast lain upon her cheek, and press'd
Back on her heart its beatings, and put by
From her clear temples the ungather'd curls ;

And in her holy sleep, when she has lain
In her unconscious beauty, and the dreams
Of her high heart came goldenly and soft,
Thou hast been there unchidden, and hast felt
The swelling of the clear, transparent veins
As the rich blood rush'd through them warm and fast.

I am impatient as I gaze on thee,
Thou inarticulate jewel! Thou hast heard
With thy dull ear such music!—the low tone
Of a fond sister's tenderness, when night
Hath folded them together like a flower;
The sudden snatch of a remember'd song
Warbled capriciously; the careless word
That half betrayeth the inaudible thought
Working within the heart; and, more than all,
Thou hast been lifted when the burning prayer
For a loved father, and the sleeping one
Lying beside her, trembled on her lip,
And the warm tear, which from her eye stole out
As the soft lash fell over it, has lain
Amid thy shining jewels like a star.

AN APPEAL.

BY PROSPER M. WETMORE.

“Oh! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
“Ye conquerors!"

YE worshippers of glory!

Who bathe the earth in blood,
And launch proud names for an after age

Upon the crimson flood,

Pause, in your march of terror!

Wo hovers o'er your path; Madness, despair, and death await

The conflict's gathering wrath !

Think ye a throne will prosper,

A nation's glory rise, When your bark is borne by a people's tears,

And wafted by their sighs ?

Look to the peaceful dwelling

Of the peasant and his race; There's joy around that lowly hearth,

There's rapture on each face.

That brow with snow is whiten’d,

Those eyes with age are dim; But his face is bright at the twilight hour

As he joins the evening hymn.

For his children there are smiling.

What a blessed sight it is
To sit in the shades of a pleasant eve,
And

gaze on a scene like this!

Two manly youths are standing

Beside their father's chair,
And a maiden's face, all loveliness,

Shines like a sun-beam there.

A mother's placid features

Are in that circle found, And her bosom warms with a thrill of joy

As she fondly looks around.

On! through the paths to glory,

Ye mighty conquerors ! The trumpet's voice has summon'd forth

Your legions to the wars !

Rush on, through fields of carnage,

And tread to earth the foe! Where'er your banners float above,

Let your sabres flash below!

Yet stay your march to greatness,

Your breath has been a fate ! Where is the peaceful cottage now?

Its hearth is desolate !

Upon that door no longer

The twilight shadows fall; In a shroudless grave the old man sleeps

Beneath the ruin'd wall.

Ye tore away his strong ones

On the battle field they lie:
The mother pined in her grief away,

And laid her down to die.

That form of seraph sweetness,

Where the eye enraptured gazed, Is a piteous wreck in its loveliness,

For the lost one's brain is crazed.

'Twere better she were sleeping

Within the silent tomb;
For never more to her frenzied eye,

The flowers of life shall bloom!

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