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Let others seek in wealth or fame,

A splendid path whereon to tread— I'd rather wear a lowlier name,

With love's enchantments round it shed. Fame's but a light to gild the grave,

And wealth can never calm the breast; But Love, a halcyon on Life's wave,

Hath power to soothe its strifes to rest.

OH, SAY NOT WE SOON CAN FORGET.

BY T. H. COSHMAN.

Oh, say not we soon can forget

The hearts that were fondly our own, Oh, say not the tear of regret

Is woman's, dear woman's alone! We part, with a smile in our eyes,

Our farewells may lightly be sighed, Yet dreary the tones of the skies,

While forms, though not feelings, divide.

We look then on days that are past,
As spectres, deceiving our gaze;

We feel like a mariner cast
Where echo in mockery plays.

Oh, yes! man, while stemming the storm
Though seeming forgetful of love,

Still worships the heart and the form
That came to his breast like a dove

TO IANTHE IN HEAVEN.

BY E. A. FOE.

Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—

A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine

All wreathed around about with flowers—
And the flowers, they all were mine.

But the dream, it could not last;

And the star of Hope did rise But to be overcast .

A voice from out the Future cries, "Onward!"—while o'er the Past,

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies, Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me,

Ambition, all, is o'er; "No more, no more, no more"—

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And o'er my aching head

The fleecy cloudlets float;
And, as they flit along,

My vanished joys denote;
Light, as the breast that felt them-

False, as the love she gave—
Changing, as heart of woman—

And fleeting as the wave!

Far on yon mountain-top

There is a wreath of snow; And on its breast the sun

Pours forth his crimson glow;
But all in vain his rays

With torrid lustre dart—
So fall the pleasures of this world

Upon my frozen heart!

A WEARY TIME IS OURS, MY LOVE.

BY BOBERT M. CHARLTON.

A Weary time is ours, my love,

A weary time is ours;
For lost to us are pleasure's smiles,

And withered are its flowers:

The ray that cheered our youthful hearts

Hath vanished from our sight, And hope's refulgent, beaming day

Hath faded into night.

How joyous, in our early youth,

Did all these scenes appear! And what hath called to manhood's eye

The bright, yet mournful tear? Ah, what hath called 1 go ask the heart,

Which, torn by grief and shame, Will answer, joy is but a spell

That passeth as it came.

Well, let it pass: a few more suns

Will change again the scene, And we shall pass from earth's vile dross,

To purer " ray serene:"
Awhile, our feeble, weary steps

O'er life's dull path may roam,
But "every night we pitch our tents

A day's march nearer home."

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