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And these are 'mong the trophies,

That build ye up a nameWith blood and tears, ye conquerors!

Ye purchase empty fame!

TO MYRA.

BY GODFREY WALLACE.

Mine, O be mine, the love which steals,

In its first warm breath from the maiden's heart! Like the purest scent, which the rose conceals,

Till its opening petals in beauty part.

Mine, O be mine, to catch the glance

Which unguarded flashes from Myra's eye, Like the telltale beam, which, when hosts advance,

Reveals where the spears of the ambush lie.

Mine, O be mine, to hear the tale,

That in whispers tells of affection won, Like the murmuring sound in the lonely vale,

That betrays where the flower-hid waters run.

Mine, O be mine, to see thee smile,

And take my tone from thine hour of mirth,

As the flower in the far-off Indian isle

Awakes, when the sun beams light the earth.

Mine, O be mine, to see thee weep,

And catch thy tears as they precious fall, As crowds in the blood of martyrs steep

A token, to make it more blest than all.

Mine, O be mine, for e'er to guard

Each lightsome step of that perfect form, Till death shall release the watch and ward, Which has borne the sun, and withstood the

storm.

THE LOOSE FEATHER.

BY MISS H. F. GOULD.

'Tis wandering down through pathless air,

A lonely thing in a boundless space, That has lost its way, and knows not where

To find a home or a resting place.

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The fearless breast, where late 'twas worn,

Has met the arrow the foeman hurl'd, The venturous wing, by which 'twas borne

Through clouds, must soon in death be furl'd!

Poor timorous thing! when it felt the dart

Where it peaceful lay, it trembled and fled; Nor staid till the blood of the eagle's heart,

To moisten and sully its down, was shed.

And now, as in careless sport ’tis tost

Above the stream by the whiffling wind, In the next swift wave 'twill be curl'd and lost,

Nor leave one trace of itself behind.

So fly the joys that warm the breast

Where they, in their downy lightness, grew; When their only home, and their native rest,

The shaft of sorrow is passing through.

And naught shall again the wounded heart

And its vanish'd peace e'er bring together; But sunder'd once, they must sink apart,

Like the stricken bird and her falling feather.

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