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Wings, like a dove, to fly!—
The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;—
O, for its home in the upper Life!

When, when will Death draw nigh!

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

All hail! thou noble land,
Our father's native soil!
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore:
For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright
The world o'er!

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,
In which our Milton told
How the vault of heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast;

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;
Thine, too, should be the voice of joy,

To hasten on the hours:
And thou, with cheek of rosiest hue,

With winged feet, shouldst still
Thy sometime frolic course pursue

O'er lawn and breezy hill.

Not so! What means this foolish heart,

And verse as idly vain?
Each hath his own allotted part

Of pleasure and of pain:
And while thou canst the hours beguile,

(Thus patiently reclined,)
I would not quench that languid smile,

Or see thee less resigned.

Some are condemned to roam the earth,

A various fate to share,
Scarce destined, from their very birth,

To know a parent's care.
To thee, sweet one, repose was given,

Yet not without alloy;
That thou might'st early think of heaven,

The promised seat of joy j—

That thou might'st know what love supreme

Pervades a mother's breast—
Flame quenchless as the heavenly beam,

The purest and the best.—
William, that love which shadows thee,

Is eminently mine:
Oh that my riper life could be

Deserving it as thine!

THE HUMA BIRD.

BY LOUISA P. SMITH.

Fly on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird,

Too near our shaded earth,
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,

May lose its note of mirth.
Fly on, nor seek a place of rest

In the home of "care-wor n things:" Twould dim the light of thy shining crest,

And thy brightly burnished wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.

The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free;

I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.

I would never wander, bird, like thee,

So near this place again;
With wing and spirit once light and free,

They should wear no more the chain
With which they are bound and fettered here,
Forever struggling for skies more clear.

There are many things like thee, bright bird;

Hopes as thy plumage gay;
Our air is with them forever stirred,

But still in air they stay.
And Happiness, like thee, fair one,

Is ever hovering o'er,
But rats in a land of brighter sun,

On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of "living waters" springs.

FROM YAMOYDEN.

BY R. C. SANDS.

They say, that, afar in the land of the west,
Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,
Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread,
A fair lake, unruffled and sparkling, is spread;
Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,
In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.

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