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النشر الإلكتروني

And not a human step impress'd the sand beach but our own; The footsteps all have vanish'd from the billow beaten strandThe vows we breathed remain with us- -they were not traced

in sand.

Far, far, we left the sea-girt shore, endear'd by childhood's


To seek the humble cot, that smiled by fair Ohio's stream.
In vain the mountain cliff opposed, the mountain torrent roar'd,
For love unfurl'd her silken wing, and o'er each barrier soar'd;
And many a wide domain we passed, and many an ample dome,
But none so bless'd, so dear to us, as wedded love's first home.
Beyond these mountains, now are all, that e'er we loved or knew,
The long remembered many, and the dearly cherished few ;
The home of her we value, and the grave of him we mourn,
Are there; and there is all the part to which the heart can turn;
But dearer scenes surround us here, and lovelier joys we trace,
For here is wedded love's first home-its hallowed resting place.


MRS WELLS is the wife of Thomas Wells, of Boston, noticed in the second volume. She writes with sweetness and simplicity.


THERE sits a woman on the brow
Of yonder rocky height;

There, gazing o'er the waves below,
She sits from morn till night.

She heeds not how the mad waves leap
Along the rugged shore;

She looks for one upon the deep
She never may see more.

As morning twilight faintly gleams,
Her shadowy form I trace;
Wrapt in the silvery mist, she seems
The Genius of the place!


Far other once was Rosalie;
Her smile was glad; her voice,
Like music o'er a summer sea,
Said to the heart-rejoice.

O'er her pure thoughts did sorrow fling
Perchance a shade, 't would pass,
Lightly as glides the breath of Spring
Along the bending grass.

A sailor's bride 't was hers to be :-
Wo to the faithless main!
Nine summers since he went to sea,
And ne'er returned again.

But long, where all is wrecked beside,
And every joy is chased,

Long, long will lingering Hope abide
Amid the dreary waste!

Nine years though all have given him o'er,
Her spirit doth not fail;

And still she waits along the shore

The never coming sail.

On that high rock, abrupt and bare,

Ever she sits, as now;

The dews have damped her flowing hair,

The sun has scorched her brow.

And every far-off sail she sees,
And every passing cloud,

Or white-winged sea-bird, on the breeze,
She calls to it aloud.

The sea-bird answers to her cry;
The cloud, the sail float on.-
The hoarse wave mocks her misery,
Yet is her hope not gone :-

It cannot go with that to part,
So long, so fondly nursed,

So mingled with her faithful heart,
That heart itself would burst.


When falling dews the clover steep,
And birds are in their nest,

And flower-buds folded up to sleep,
And ploughmen gone to rest,

Down the rude track her feet have worn,
-There scarce the goat may go;—
Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn,

Is seen descending slow.

But when the gray morn tints the sky,
And lights that lofty peak,—
With a strange lustre in her eye,
A fever in her cheek,

Again she goes, untired, to sit

And watch, the live-long day;
Nor till the star of eve is lit,
E'er turns her steps away.

Hidden, and deep, and never dry,—
Or flowing, or at rest,

A living spring of hope doth lie
In every human breast.

All else may fail, that soothes the heart,—

All, save that fount alone;

With that and life at once we part,

For life and hope are one.


He sat upon his humble perch, nor flew
At my approach;

But as I nearer drew,

Looked on me, as I fancied, with reproach,
And sadness too:

And something still his native pride proclaim'd, Despite his wo;

Which, when I marked,-ashamed

To see a noble creature brought so low,
My heart exclaim'd,

Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye,
Child of the storm,

When from thy home on high,

Yon craggy-breasted rock, I saw thy form
Cleaving the sky?

It grieveth me to see thy spirit tamed;
Gone out the light

That in thine eye-ball flamed,

When to the midday sun thy steady flight
Was proudly aimed!

Like the young dove forsaken, is the look
Of thy sad eye,

Who in some lonely nook,

Mourneth upon the willow bough her destiny,
Beside the brook.

While somewhat sterner in thy downward gaze
Doth seem to lower,

And deep disdain betrays,

As if thou cursed man's poorly acted power,
And scorned his praise.

Oh, let not me insult thy fallen dignity,
Poor injured bird,

Gazing with vulgar eye

Upon thy ruin;-for my heart is stirr'd
To hear thy cry;

And answereth to thee, as I turn to go,

It is a stain

On man!-Thus, even thus low

Be brought the wretch, who could for sordid gain,
Work thee such wo!


Or Georgia. We are not acquainted with the writer, except by a few articles in verse, which have appeared in the newspapers.


""Tis many moons ago-a long-long time
Since first upon this shore a white man trod;
From the great water to the mountain clime
This was our home;-'t was given us by the God
That gave ye yours.-Love ye your native sod?
So did our fathers too-for they were men!
They fought to guard it, for their hearts were brave,
And long they fought-we were a people then;
This was our country-it is now our grave-
Would I had never lived, or died the land to save.

When first ye came, your numbers were but few,
Our nation many as the leaves or sand:
Hungry and tired ye were-we pitied you-
We called you brothers-took you by the hand—
But soon we found ye came to rob the land:
We quarrell'd-and your countrymen we slew,
Till one alone of all, remain'd behind,
Among the false he only had been true,
And much we loved this man of single mind,
And ever while he lived, to him were kind.

He loved us too, and taught us many things,
And much we strove the stranger's heart to glad;
But to its kindred still the spirit clings,
And therefore was his soul for ever sad;
Nor other wish or joy the lone one had,
Save on the solitary shore to roam,

Or sit and gaze for hours upon the deep,
That roll'd between him and his native home;

And when he thought none mark'd him, he would weep,
Or sing this song of wo which still our maidens keep.

"My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
And ere the shades of evening close,
Is scatter'd on the ground-to die!
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed,
As though she wept such waste to see,-
But none shall drop a tear for me!

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