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Wings, like a dove, to fly!—
When, when will Death draw nigh!
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.
BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.
All hail! thou noble land,
The Genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep, Shall hail the great sublime; While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. Then let the world combine— O'er the main our naval line, Like the milky way, shall shine Bright in fame •
Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam,— Yet lives the blood of England in our veins, And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame By its chains?
While the language, free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,
While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts, Between let Ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the Sun; Yet, still, from either beach, The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, "We are One!" 14*
THINE IS THE SPRING OF LIFE.
BY HENBY PICKEBING.
Thine is the spring of life, dear boy,
And thine should be its flowers;
To hasten on the hours:
With winged feet, shouldst still
O'er lawn and breezy hill.
Not so! What means this foolish heart,
And verse as idly vain?
Of pleasure and of pain:
(Thus patiently reclined,)
Or see thee less resigned.
Some are condemned to roam the earth,
A various fate to share,
To know a parent's care.
Yet not without alloy;
The promised seat of joy j—
That thou might'st know what love supreme
Pervades a mother's breast—
The purest and the best.—
Is eminently mine:
Deserving it as thine!
THE HUMA BIRD.
BY LOUISA P. SMITH.
Fly on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,
May lose its note of mirth.
In the home of "care-wor n things:" Twould dim the light of thy shining crest,
And thy brightly burnished wings,
The fields of upper air are thine,
I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
I would never wander, bird, like thee,
So near this place again;
They should wear no more the chain
There are many things like thee, bright bird;
Hopes as thy plumage gay;
But still in air they stay.
Is ever hovering o'er,
On a waveless, peaceful shore,
BY R. C. SANDS.
They say, that, afar in the land of the west,