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TO THE CONDOR
BY E. F. ELLET.
WONDROUS, majestic bird! whose mighty wing Dwells not with puny warblers of the spring; Nor on earth's silent breast
Powerful to soar in strength and pride on high, And sweep the azure bosom of the sky,— Chooses its place of rest.
Proud nursling of the tempest, where repose
Dost thou in silence, breathless and alone-
The mountain's frozen peak is lone and bare,
No foot of man hath ever rested there ;-
Far o'er its frowning summit-and the plain
Or the green sea-beat shore.
TO THE CONDOR.
The limits of thy course no daring eye
Has marked; thy glorious path of light on high
Is trackless and unknown;
The gorgeous sun thy quenchless gaze may share;
Thou art, with him, alone.
Imperial wanderer! the storms that shake
Earth's towers, and bid her rooted mountains quake,
Are never felt by thee!
Beyond the bolt-beyond the lightning's gleam,
And thus the soul, with upward flight like thine,
May track the realms where heaven's own glories
And scorn the tempest's power;
Yet meaner cares oppress its drooping wings;
Still to earth's joys the sky-born wanderer clings-
BY A. M. WELLS.
THE flowers, the many flowers That all along the smiling valley grew, While the sun lay for hours,
Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew; They, to the summer air
No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield; Vainly, to bind her hair,
The village maiden seeks them in the field.
The breeze, the gentle breeze
That wandered like a frolic child at play,
Trailing their stolen sweets along its way,
Its whispered love is to the violet given;
And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven.
The brook, the limpid brook
That prattled of its coolness as it went
Forth from its rocky nook,
Leaping with joy to be no longer pent,
Its pleasant song is hushed;
The sun no more looks down upon its play ;-
The mountain torrent drives its noisy way.
The hours, the youthful hours,
In dreams that ne'er could know reality;
Fond hours, but half enjoyed,
Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away,
Young life, young turbulent life,
If, like the stream, it take a wayward course,
O'erwhelmed, at length, by passion's curbless force.
For idle hopes, or useless musings given:
Who dreams away his powers,
The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven!
BY A. P. DINNIE S.
Happiness is of the heart, and it is the mind that gives its tone and coloring to Nature.
THERE is a spell in every flower
A sweetness in each spray,
And every simple bird has power
And there is music on each breeze
The crystal dew-drops on the trees
There's gladness too in everything,
For everywhere comes on, with Spring,
A charm which cannot pall!