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And now,

far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!

SAMUEL WOODWORTA.

The Soul's Defiance.

I said to sorrow's awful storm,

That beat against my breast,
Rage onl—thou may'st destroy this form,

And lay it low at rest;
But still the spirit that now brooks

Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted on its fury looks,

With steadfast eye.

I said to penury's meagre train,

Come on! your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,

And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures

Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours

With bitter smile.

I said to cold neglect and scorn,

Pase on! I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form

And being are forgot;
Yet still the spirit which you see

Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility

Its high-born smiles.

I said to friendship’s menaced blow,

Strike deep! my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add one bitter woe

To those already there;
Yet still the spirit that sustains

This last severe distress,
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,

And scorn redress.

I said to death's uplifted dart,

Aim surel oh, why delay ?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart

A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit, firm and free,

Unruffled by this last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
Shall pass away.

LAVINIA STODDARD.

The Mitherless Bairn.

WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'T is the puir doited loonie,—the mitherless bairn.

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed;
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
And litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O’hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn.

Yon sister that seng o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mamı ie is laid,

The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn.

O, speak him na harshly,—he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn,
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn.

WILLIAM THOM.

Stanzas.

My life is like the summer rose

That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,

Is scattered on the ground—to diel
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see, —
But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail—its date is brief,

Restless—and soon to pass away!
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree, -
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet

Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand;

Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea, -
But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

RICHARD HENRY WILDE

Afar in the Desert.

Arar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years ;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:
Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon;
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments by fate or falsehood reft;
Companions of early days lost or left-
And my native land—whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young, and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All—all now forsaken-forgotten-foregone!
And 1-a lone exile remembered of none-
My high aims abandoned, -my good acts undone-
Aweary of all that is under the sun-
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the desert afar from man.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side.
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife

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The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear,
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear,
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And
my

soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,-
O, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the desert alone to ride!
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, -
The only law of the Desert Land !
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
Away, away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze,
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of gray forest o’erhung with wild vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok’s fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,

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