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“Gather the young, the fair, the free,

Where a thousand torches glare, With lyre and wreath and revelry

Still is that yision there!

“It comes when summer skies are bright,

On the laugh of the morning breezeIt comes when evening's misty light

Has swept the sleeping seas

An early rest in the sullen pall,

One dream with the death pang woveOh! never of gems or of festal hall

But that first young dream of love!

PSALM CXXXVII.

COME sweep the harp! one thrilling rush

Of all that warm'd its chords to song,
And then the strains for ever hush,

That oft have breathed its wires along :
The ray is quench'd that lit our mirth,

The shrine is gone that claim'd the prayer, And exiles o'er the distant earth,

How can we wake the carol there?

One sigh, my harp! and then to sleep,

For all that loved thy song have flown,
Why shouldst thou lonely vigils keep,

Forsaken, broken, and alone ?
Let this sad murmur be thy last,

Nor e'er again in music swell;
Thine hours of joyousness are past,

And thus we sever; fare thee well !

GEORGE P. MORRIS

Is a native of New York. In 1823, in conjunction with Mr Woodworth, he established a paper in New York, called The New York Mirror and Ladies' Literary Gazette ; of this he is now the editor. He is the author of a dramatic piece, entitled Brier Cliff.

WOMAN.

Ah! woman-in this world of ours,

What gift can be compared to thee?
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,

And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own.

My mother !-at that holy name,

Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame,
A feeling which, for years of fame,

I would not, could not crush.
And sisters !--they are dear as life-
But when I look upon my WIFE,

My life-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend,
In mother-sisters—wife-and friend.

Yes, woman's love is free from guile,

And pure as bright Aurora's ray-
The heart will melt before its smile,

And earthly passions fade away.
Were I the monarch of the earth,

And master of the swelling sea,
I would not estimate their worth,

Dear woman, half the price of thee.

THE MINIATURE.

WILLIAM was holding in his hand

The likeness of his wife : ’T was drawn by some enchanter's wand

It look'd-it smiled-like life !
He almost thought it spoke-he gazed

Upon the painting still,
And was delighted and amazed

To view the artist's skill.

“This picture is thyself, sweet Jane,

'Tis drawn to nature true; I've kiss'd it o'er and o’er again,

It is so much like you !” “ And has it kiss'd you back, my dear? "

“Why-no, my love,” said he ; Then, William, it is very clear It's not at all like me.

66

WHAT CAN IT MEAN?

I'm much too young

to

marry, For I am only seventeen; Why think I then of Harry ?

What can it mean-what can it mean?

Whenever Harry meets me,

Beside the brook, or on the green, How tenderly he greets ine!

What can it mean—what can it mean?

Whene'er my name he utters,

A blush upon my cheek is seen, And then my heart so flutters—

What can it mean- -what can it mean?

And when he mentions Cupid,

Or, smiling, calls me “fairy queen," I sigh and look so stupid !

What can it mean—what can it mean?

Oh, mercy! what can ail me ?

I’m growing pale and very lean;
My spirits often fail me!

What can it mean-what can it mean?

I'M NOT IN LOVE!-oh smother

Such a thought at seventeen:
I'll

go and ask my mother
What it can mean-what it can mean.

G. WALLINGFORD CLARKE

Is, we believe, a native of Kentucky. He has lately published a volume with the title of The Dreams of Pindus.

THE BURIED MAID.

And they have laid thee in thy narrow cell,

Maid of the matchless brow for the cold clay
To be thy bridegroom, till the eternal day,
When the loud trump its judgment peal shall swell.

So be it-what the Almighty dooms is well,

But who that saw thine eyes' bright glances play,

Thy cheek's fine flush, that mock'd the blooms of May, So late—could dream of death's dissolving spell ?

To rapture love had sung- Las the bright eyed hour
Soon will I lead along, with Hymen's train,
To bless the blushing virgin, and the swain ;-

And hope believed, and lighted up her bower;

Sudden the scene was changed-a radiant flower Sunk its sweet head-and love's glad song was vain !

VOL. III

30*

INSCRIPTION.

WHOE'ER thou art, to whom this secret shade
Inviting seems, where many a wild flower flings
Its odor round, and many a murmur soothes
Of distant falling waters the pleased ear;-
If solitude may claim thy thoughts awhile,
Here rest and meditate-her cell is here.
And say, does love tny willing bosom bind,
Thy heart all anxiousness,—thy soul all sigh?
Haply the virgin, in whose clasping arms
A promised paradise thy fancy paints,
Whose swelling bosom heaves upon the sight
More beautiful than ocean's foam-tipt wave-
Whose kindling eyes, with lavish lustre, thrill
Thy trembling frame, –a meek simplicity,
And innocence assuming,--specious show!)
Exults, in wanton triumph, at thy sighs,
And mocks their incense.-Rouse thee from thy trance;
And let the light of reason guide thee safe
To love's pure altar. Does ambition urge
Thy steps to tempt her dangerous paths?-Beware !
Think how the storm can rage :—yet the rough blast
That lays the mighty oak a ruin round,
With all its hundred arms that waved to heaven,
Passes as harmless o'er the lowly blossom,
As does the zephyr's sigh. And rivers strong,
Rushing their rugged channels through, each rock,
Opposing, chafes to angry foam and roar.
While the hush'd stream, fed from its placid fount,
Winds through the flow'ry vale its silver way:
And, as a quiet pilgrim seeks his shrine,
Flows on, to wed with ocean's distant tide.
Mortal !-whoe'er thou art, should thy pursuit
Be happiness—thou need'st not wander far,
If in thy breast no baneful passions wage
Unholy warfare ; and religion mild
Has led thy steps to her own hallow'd mount,
Where hope, with upward eye, and seraph wand
Points to the sky :—but if thy blacken'd heart
Nourish revenge, or hatred, or the asp.
Of envy pale—or discontentment's gall
O’erflows within-or filthy avarice
Disturbs thy dreams,—thou, curst of heaven, shalt find
Peace but a sound—and happiness a shade!

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