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THE road of life is but a game,
Where some a thirst for power and fame,
And some for pleasure feel-
But every player does not win,
Although he fairly may begin,

And make a proper deal.

Some men assume the part of trade,
Some turn the soil with active spade,

While some to wealth incline,
And making into earth their way,
Bring up, before the light of day,

The diamond of the mine.

In clubs some take an active part-
While some the dictates of the heart

With eager zeal pursue;

And, given to wine, their ruin prove,
Or, trusting else in faithless love,

Their disappointment rue.

All have their different parts assign'd,
And ranks throughout the world we find,
Mid people red and black,

Each on the one below him leans-
Some rise aloft to kings and queens,
Some sink to humble Jack.
But, whether station'd high or low,
He who his honest heart can know
Free from reproving thumps,
E'en though he own nor house, nor lands,
That man in native glory stands

The very ace of trumps.

Some men will shuffle through their day, Unmindful how their partners play;

Unmoved they seem to stand,

And throw their cards with a most bold
And tranquil face, although they hold
A miserable hand.

The daring spirits take the lead,
While those that in the game succeed
Seem bound to follow suit;
Such play the very deuse at last,
Their fortune, character they blast,
And reap the bitter fruit.
How oft, alas! it is the fate
Of jarring comrades, wise too late,
To play a luckless club,
And sadly finding out at last
The time for meditation past,

A heart had gain'd the rub.
By honour some their fortunes win,
And some by trick, nor deem it sin
To profit as they may,-
But time will oft the wretch expose
To merited contempt, who chose
Dishonourable play.

"Tis only he, who, void of guile,
Knows that he has a right to smile,

And tells his heart the same

Author of "The Sylph, and Other Poems," Philadelphia.

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O WAVE that glidest swiftly
On thy bright and happy way,
From the morning until evening,
And from twilight until day,-
Why leapest thou so joyously,

While coldly on thy shore
Sleeps the noble and the gallant heart,
For aye and evermore?

Or dost thou weep, O river,

And is this bounding wave
But the tear thy bosom sheddeth
As a tribute o'er his grave!
And when, in midnight's darkness,
The winds above thee moan,
Are they mourning for our sorrows,
Do they sigh for him that's gone?
Keep back thy tears, then, river,

Or, if they must be shed,
Let them flow but for the living,
They're needless for the dead.
His soul shall dwell in glory,

Where bounds a brighter wave, But our pleasures, with his troubles, Are buried in the grave.



Make its caverns deep and wide; In the soil they died to save

Lay the brave men side by side. Side by side they fought and fell,

Hand to hand they met the foe; Who has heard his grandsire tell Braver strife or deadlier blow! Wake no mournful harmonies,

Shed no earthly tear for them; Summer dew and sighing breeze Shall be wail and requiem. Pile the grave-mound broad and high, Where the martyr'd brethren sleep; It shall point the pilgrim's eye

Here to bend-but not to weep. Not to weep! O, no! the grief Springing from a blow like this, May not seek a fond relief

In the drops that mothers kiss. But the kindling heart shall bear Hence the lesson stern and high With as proud a flame to dare

With as calm a throb to die.

Judge CHARLTON, of Georgia. A volume of his poems was published in Boston. in 1838.



How blest the farmer's simple life!

How pure the joy it yields! Far from the world's tempestuous strife, Free, mid the scented fields! When morning woos, with roseate hue, O'er the far hills away, His footsteps brush the silvery dew,

To greet the welcoming day. When Sol's first beam in glory glows, And blithe the skylark's song, Pleased, to his toil the farmer goes,

With cheerful steps along.
While noon broods o'er the sultry sky,

And sunbeams fierce are cast,
Where the cool streamlet wanders by,
He shares his sweet repast.
When twilight's gentlest shadows fall
Along the darkening plain,
He lists his faithful watch-dog's call

To warn the listening train.
Down the green lane young hurrying feet
Their eager pathway press;

His loved ones come in joy to greet,

And claim their sire's caress.

Then, when the evening prayer is said,

And Heaven with praise is blest, How sweet reclines his weary head

On slumber's couch of rest!

Nor deem that fears his dreams alarm, Nor cares, with carking din: Without, his dogs will guard from harm, And all is peace within.

O ye, who run in folly's race,

To win a worthless prize,

Learn, from the simple tale we trace,
Where true contentment lies!

Ho! monarch! flush'd with glory's pride!
Thou painted, gilded thing!
Hie to the free-born farmer's side,
And learn to be a king!


MINSTREL, Sing that song again,

Plaintive in its solemn flow;
Memory owns its magic strain,

Loved and cherish'd long ago:
Lo! the past, the mystic past,

Rises through the vista dim-
Just as twilight's shades are cast

At the day's departing hymn!
Minstrel, 't was an eve like this:
Stars were spangling all the sky:
Every zephyr spoke of bliss,

Floating in its fragrance by;
Then, within our moon-lit bower,
One, with voice like music's own,
Sweetly charm'd the lingering hour,
To the soft lute's silvery tone.

Of Meriden, Connecticut. Author of "Babylon," &c.

As the witching cadence fell
Wild within our bower of love,
Angel bands might prove the spell,
Bending from the courts above!
Minstrel, chant once more the air,

Soft as spring's departing breath:
She who sang its numbers there

Slumbers as the bride of Death! Minstrel, chide thou not my tearsThou hast waked a mournful theme; Memory roves the slumbering years, Like some dear, forgotten dream: Day will come, with joy and gladness— Cares once more will fling their blight; Chide not, then, my spirit's sadnessMinstrel, let me weep to-night!


TO S. T. P.

SHADOWS and clouds are o'er me; Thou art not here, my bride! The billows dash before me

Which bear me from thy side; On lowering waves benighted, Dim sets the weary day; Thou art not here, my plighted, To smile the storm away. Where nymphs of ocean slumber, I strike the measured stave, With wild and mournful number, To charm the wandering wave. Hark to the words of sorrow

Along the fading main! ""Tis night-but will the morrow Restore that smile again?" Mid curtain'd dreams descending, Thy gentle form I trace; Dimly with shadows blending, I gaze upon thy face; Thy voice comes o'er me gladly,

Thy hand is on my brow;

I wake the wave rolls madly

Beneath the ploughing prow!
Speed on, thou surging billow!
O'er ocean speed away!
And bear unto her pillow
The burden of my lay:
Invest her visions brightly

With passion's murmur'd word, And bid her bless him nightlyHim of the lute and sword. And her, of dreams unclouded, With tongue of lisping tale, Whose eye I left soft shrouded

'Neath slumber's misty veil,When morn at length discloses

The smile I may not see, Bear to her cheek of roses

A father's kiss for me.

A lieutenant in the United States army, formerly of Rhode Island. He is the author of numerous metrica pieces in the periodicals.




Ox yonder shore, on yonder shore,

Now verdant with the depths of shade,
Beneath the white-arm'd sycamore,

There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear.-A brother weeps.-
"Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,

And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan

Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmur'd at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.

In sounds that seem like sorrow's own,
Their funeral dirges faintly creep;
Then deepening to an organ tone,

In all their solemn cadence sweep,
And pour, unheard, along the wild,
Their desert anthem o'er a child.
She came, and pass'd. Can I forget,

How we whose hearts had hail'd her birth,
Ere three autumnal suns had set,

Consign'd her to her mother earth!
Joys and their memories pass away;
But griefs are deeper plough'd than they.
We laid her in her narrow cell,

We heap'd the soft mould on her breast;
And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell

Upon her lonely place of rest.
May angels guard it; may they bless
Her slumbers in the wilderness.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
The sweeping flood, with torrent moan,
At evening lifts its solemn roar,
As, in one broad, eternal tide,
The rolling waters onward glide.
There is no marble monument,
There is no stone, with graven lie,
To tell of love and virtue blent

In one almost too good to die.
We needed no such useless trace
To point us to her resting-place.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

But, midst the tears of April showers,
The genius of the wild hath strown
His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers,
And cast his robes of vernal bloom
In guardian fondness o'er her tomb.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd,
And still the summer vines are thrown,
In annual wreaths, across her breast,
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallow'd spot with leaves.

MICAH P. FLINT was a son of the late Reverend TIMOTHY FLINT. He was the author of a volume entitled "The Hunter, and other Poems," and of many brief pieces in the magazines.



HIGH walls and huge the body may confine, And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design,

And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways: Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control! No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose: Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole, And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes! It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale It wanders, plucking honey'd fruits and flowers; It visits home, to hear the fireside tale,

Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. "Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, And, in its watches, wearies every star!



Nor in the golden morning
Shall faded forms return,
For languidly and dimly then
The lights of memory burn:
Nor when the noon unfoldeth

Its sunny light and smile,
For these unto their bright repose
The wondering spirit wile:

But when the stars are wending
Their radiant way on high,
And gentle winds are whispering back
The music of the sky;

O, then those starry millions

Their streaming banners weave, To marshal on their wildering way The Armies of the Eve:

The dim and shadowy armies

Of our unquiet dreams, Whose footsteps brush the feathery fern And print the sleeping streams.

We meet them in the calmness

Of high and holier climes;

We greet them with the blessed names Of old and happier times.

And, marching in the starlight

Above the sleeping dust,
They freshen all the fountain-springs
Of our undying trust.
Around our every pathway,

In beauteous ranks they roam,
To guide us to the dreamy rest

Of our eternal home.

WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, author of a volume of "Poems," published in 1815, at Boston. The sonnet quoted above was written during his despotic imprisonment for the expression of opinions.

+ Mr. CURRY was formerly associated with Mr. GtLAGHER in the editorship of "The Hesperian," at Cincinnati.



DON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?
In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,

They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
And Alice lies under the stone.

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,

Which stood at the foot of the hill,
Together we've lain in the noonday shade,
And listened to Appleton's mill:

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
The rafters have tumbled in,


And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you
Has followed the olden din.

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the door-step stood?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,

The tree you would seek in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest waved,
Grow grass and the golden grain.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,
And the shaded nook in the running brook,
Where the children went to swim ?
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,

And of all the boys that were schoolmates then,
There are only you and I.

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new; But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth,

There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends-yet I hail Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.


THERE's a new stone now in the old churchyard,
And a few withered flowers enwreath it;
Alas! for the youth, by the fates ill-starr'd,
Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it:
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

In his early day to be pluck'd away,
While the sunshine of life was o'er him,
And naught but the light of a gladdening ray
Beam'd out on the road before him.
Poor Tom!

All the joy that love and affection sheds,
Seem'd to fling golden hope around him,

Mr. ENGLISH, of Philadelphia, is best known as an original, forcible, and sometimes humorous, writer of prose.

The late M. C. FIELD, of New Orleans, was a frequent contributor to the southern journals under the signature of "PHAZMA." He died at sea, on a voyage to Boston, for the benefit of his health, November 15, 1841, aged thirty-two years.

And the warmest hearts and the wisest heads
Alike to their wishes found him.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

He is sleeping now 'neath the willow bough,
Where the low-toned winds are creeping,
As if to bewail so sad a tale,

While the eyes of the night are weeping.
Poor Tom!

Oh, the old churchyard, with its new white stone,
Now I love, though I used to fear it;
And I linger oft mid its tombs alone,
For a strange charm draws me near it.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

We were early friends-oh, time still tends
All the links of our love to sever!
And alas! time breaks, but never mends,
The chain that it snaps forever.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

In the old churchyard we have wandered oft,
Lost in gentle and friendly musing;
And his eye was light, and his words were soft,
Soul with soul, as we roved, infusing.

Poor Tom! poor Tom!

And we wonder'd then, if, when we were men, Aught in life could our fond thoughts smother; But alas! again-we dream'd not when

Death should tear us from each other.

Poor Tom!

On the very spot where the stone now stands, We have sat in the shade of the willow, With a life-warm clasp of each other's hands, And this breast has been his pillow.

Poor Tom! poor Tom!

Now poor Tom lies cold in the churchyard old,
And his place may be filled by others;
But he still lives here with a firmer hold,
For our souls were twined like brothers.

Poor Tom!

There's a new stone now in the old churchyard,
And a few withered flowers enwreath it;
Alas! for the youth by the fates ill-starr'd,
Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it:
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

In his early day to be pluck'd away,

While the sunshine of life was o'er him, And naught but the light of a gladdening ray Beam'd out on the road before him. Poor Tom!


SHADOW, just like the thin regard of men,
Constant and close to friends, while fortune's bright,
You leave me in the dark, but come again
And stick to me as long as there is light!
Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done,
You've never stepped between me and the sun;
But ready still to back me I have found you,
Although, indeed, you 're fond of changing sides;
And, while I never yet could get around you,
Where'er I walk, my Shadow with me glides!
That you should leave me in the dark, is meet
Enough, there being one thing to remark-

Light calls you forth, yet, lying at my feet,
I'm keeping you forever in the dark!



THESE lovely shores! how lone and still

A hundred years ago,

The unbroken forest stood above,

The waters dash'd below:

The waters of a lonely sea,

Where never sail was furl'd,
Embosom'd in a wilderness,
Which was itself a world.

A hundred years! go back; and lo!
Where, closing in the view,
Juts out the shore, with rapid oar
Darts round a frail canoe.-
"Tis a white voyager, and see,

His prow is westward set
O'er the calm wave: hail to thy bold,
World-seeking bark, MARQUETTE!

The lonely bird, that picks his food

Where rise the waves, and sink,

At their strange coming, with shrill scream,
Starts from the sandy brink;
The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky,
Floats o'er on level wing,

And the savage from his covert looks,
With arrow on the string.

A hundred years are past and gone,
And all the rocky coast
Is turreted with shining towns,
An empire's noble boast.
And the old wilderness is changed
To cultured vale and hill;
And the circuit of its mountains
An empire's numbers fill.

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Below, as o'er its ocean breadth
The air's light currents run,
The wilderness of moving leaves
Is glancing in the sun.

I look around to where the sky
Meets the far forest line,
And this imperial domain-

This kingdom-all is mine.

This bending heaven, these floating clouds, Waters that ever roll,

And wilderness of glory, bring

Their offerings to my soul.

My palace, built by Gon's own hand,
The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Wide stretch its living halls away,

Pillar'd and roof'd with green.
My music is the wind that now
Pours loud its swelling bars,
Now lulls in dying cadences,

My festal lamps are stars.

Though when in this, my lonely home,
My star-watch'd couch I press,

I hear no fond “good-night”—think not
I am companionless.

O, no! I see my father's house,

The hill, the tree, the stream,
And the looks and voices of my home
Come gently to my dream.

And in these solitary haunts,
While slumbers every tree
In night and silence, Gon himself
Seems nearer unto me.

I feel His presence in these shades,
Like the embracing air;
And as my eyelids close in sleep,
My heart is hush'd in prayer.



DEVOUT, yet cheerful; pious, not austere;
To others lenient, to himself severe;
Though honour'd, modest; diffident, though praised;
The proud he humbled, and the humble raised;
Studious, yet social; though polite, yet plain;
No man more learned, yet no man less vain.
His fame would universal envy move,
But envy's lost in universal love.

That he has faults, it may be bold to doubt,
Yet certain 'tis we ne'er have found them out.

If faults he has, (as man, 'tis said, must have,)
They are the only faults he ne'er forgave.

I flatter not absurd to flatter where
Just praise is fulsome, and offends the ear.

* Doctor HARNEY, I believe, was a native of Kentucky. His principal poetical work, "Crystalina, a Fairy Tale," was published in New York in 1816. He was the author of several other poems, the best known of which is "The Fever Dream."

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