240 THE SETTLER. Which was the living chronicle The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge, His garden spade, or drove his share He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, THE SETTLER. Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, The beaver sank beneath the wound Its pond-built Venice by. Humble the lot, yet his the race! Who cumbered Bunker's height of red, 241 BALLAD. BY E. C. EMBURY. "La rose cueillie et le cœur gagne ne plaisent qu'un jour." THE maiden sat at her busy wheel, Her heart was light and free, And oft I heard her say, "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day." I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek, And I sighed to think that the traitor love, But she thought not of future days of wo, While she carolled in tones so gay; "The gathered rose and the stolen heart, Can charm but for a day." A year passed on, and again I stood By the humble cottage-door; BALLAD. The maid sat at her busy wheel, But her look was blithe no more; The big tear stood in her downcast eye, 66 The gathered rose, and the stolen heart Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye, And made her cheek so pale; The maid had forgotten her early song, While she listened to love's soft tale. She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, It had wasted her life away: And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, Had charmed but for a day. 243 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. BY N. P. WILLIS. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walked the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old, And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true; it is very true; I'm old, and "I 'bide my time :" But my heart will leap at a scene like this Play on, play on; I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; |