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The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock,
The gleaming sount, the shadow of the rock.
Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain,
And in the influence of its touch how blest, \
Are these things link'd, for many a thoughtful breast,
With household memories, through all change
The matin-bird, the ripple of a stream,
Beside our native porch, the hearth-light's gleam,
The voices earliest by the soul revered!
What secret current of man's nature turns
Unto the golden East, with ceaseless flow 7
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns,
The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow.
Rapt in high thought, though weary, faint, and
slow, Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, 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? Q thou, true Eastern Star! Saviour, atoning Lord! where'er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain Their hope the fair lost birth-right to regain!
Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard,
Servant of God! thy day is almost done!
The charm now lingering in thy look and word
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 begun—
Pervade 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.
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
k summer-storms had heap'd' But free, glad
Once o: 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 %. 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
FROM THE GERMAN OF BRANNER.
GATHER, ye sullen thunder clouds;
Your wings, ye lightnings, wave,
Like Spirits bursting from their shrouds:
And howl, thou wild and dreary storm,
Like echoes of the grave,
Sounds of the brothers of the worm.
Ay, wilder still, ye thunders, roll,
Yelightnings, cleave the ground:
Ye cannot shake the Christian soul:
In God's high strength she sits sublime,
To. worlds were dust around;
Defying Chance, outliving Time.
THEY tell me I am happy—and o
I try to think it true;
They say I have no cause to weep,
My sorrows are so few;
That in the wilderness we tread,
Mine is a favour'd lot;
My petty griefs all fantasies,
ould I but heed them not.
It may be so; the cup of life
Has many a bitter draught,
Which those who drink with silent lips
Have smiled on while they quaff'd.
It may be so; I cannot tell
What others have to bear,
But sorry should I be to give
Another heart my share.
They bid me to the festive board,
I go a smiling guest,
Their laughter and their revelry
Are torture to my breast;
They call for music, and there comes
Some old familiar strain;
I dash away the starting tear,
Then turn—and smile again.
But oh! my heart is wandering
Back to my father's home,
Back to my sisters at their F.
The meadows in their bloom,
The blackbird on the scented thorn,
The murmuring of the stream,
The sounds upon the evening breeze,
Like voices in a dream;
The watchful eyes that never more
Shall gaze upon my brow,
The smiles—Oh! cease that melody,
I cannot bear it now !
And heed not when the stranger sighs,
Nor mark the tears that start,
There can be no companionship
For loneliness of heart!
WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE!
WHY don't the men propose, mamma 7
Why don't the men propose 7
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes'
It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That ev'ry body knows;
You fête the finest men in town,
Yet, oh! they won't propose !
I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;
For coronets and eldest sons
I'm ever on the watch;
I’ve hopes when some distingué beau
A glance upon me throws;
But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt,
Alas! he won't propose !
With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt
The heads of all the beaux;
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And, oh! they won't propose !
I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;
I felt convinced that men preferred
A simple sort of Miss;
And so I lisp'd out naught beyond
Plain “yeses” or plain “noes,”
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh! they won't propose!
And what is to be done, mamma
Oh! what is to be done 7
I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one:
At balls I am too often left
Where spinsters sit in rows;
Why won't the men propose, mamma!
y won't the men propose
T. H. BAILEY,