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The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock,
Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain,
ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.
Unto the golden East, with ceaseless flow?
The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow.
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know Where pass'd the shepherd-fathers of mankind.
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far Still points to where our alienated home
Lay in bright peace? O thou, true Eastern Star! Saviour, atoning Lord! where'er we roam,
Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain
TO AN AGED FRIEND
Servant of God! thy day is almost done!
Is that which hangs about the setting sun,
That which the meekness of decay hath won Still from revering love.-Yet doth the sense
Of Life immortal-progress but begunPervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline, And the loved flowers which round thee smile
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine; 'While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of Heaven.
A HAPPY HOUR.
Oh! what a joy to feel that in my breast
The founts of childhood's vernal fancies lay Still pure, though heavily and long-repress'd
By early-blighted leaves, which o'er their way Dark summer-storms had heap'd! But free, glad
play Once more was given them ;—to the sunshine's glow And the sweet wood-song's penetrating flow,
And to the wandering primrose-breath of May, And the rich hawthorn odours, forth they sprung,
Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought Of spiritual presence o'er them hung,
And of immortal life!-a germ, unwrought In childhood's soul to power, now strong, serene, And full of love and sight, colouring the whole blest scene!
Like Spirits bursting from their shrouds :
Ye cannot shake the Christian soul:
In God's high strength she sits sublime,
Defying Chance, outliving Time.
THE LONELY HEART.
I try to think it true;
My sorrows are so few;
Mine is a favour'd lot;
Would I but heed them not.
It may be so; the cup of life
Has many a bitter draught,
Have smiled on while they quaff’d.
What others have to bear,
Another heart my share.
They bid me to the festive board,
I go a smiling guest,
Are torture to my breast;
Some old familiar strain;
Then turn—and smile again.
But oh! my heart is wandering
Back to my father's home,
The meadows in their bloom,
The blackbird on the scented thorn,
The murmuring of the stream,
Like voices in a dream;
Shall gaze upon my brow,
I cannot bear it now!
Nor mark the tears that start,
WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE? Why don't the men propose, mamma ?
Why don't the men propose ?
And then away he goes !
That ev'ry body knows;
Yet, oh! they won't propose!
To make a proper match;
I'm ever on the watch;
A glance upon me throws;
Alas! he won't propose !
And dressing like a blue;
As if I'd read them through!
With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt
The heads of all the beaux;
And, oh! they won't propose !
That ignorance was bliss ;
A simple sort of Miss ;
Plain “yeses” or plain “noes,"
Yet, oh! they won't propose !
I heard Sir Harry Gale
I started, turning pale ;
I blush'd like any rose;
Ecarté he'd propose !
Oh! what is to be done?
For I am thirty-one:
Where spinsters sit in rows;
T. H. BAILEY.