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THEY TELL ME THOU’LT FORGET.

BY ISAAC FITZGERALD SHEPHARD.

THEY tell me thou❜lt forget,
When passion's charm is stayed,
The pledge-the vow-the promises,
We to each other made:
They think that woman's heart
Is fleeting as the air;

But ah! they cannot, cannot tell
The love that slumbers there!

They tell me thou❜lt forget,

When I am from thee gone-
That all thy faith will transient be,
As dew-drops in the morn.
They know thy heart will fail,

Till I no longer share

The hopes, the joyous sympathies,
The love that slumbers there!

They tell me thou'lt forget,

When pleasure's sound is heard ;—
Or music's swell is bursting forth,
Like song of Eden's bird :-
"Tis wondrous they should think
A steadfast heart so rare!

But none, save me, have ever known
The love that slumbers there.

O no, thou❜lt not forget,

Though flatterers come and go;-
And even I should faithless prove,
And fill thy life with wo!
Though daily griefs oppress,
Though hard thy lot to bear,
Each dream, within thy breast, shall wake
The love that slumbers there.

THE STARS WERE SHINING BRIGHT, LOVE.

BY WILLIAM KEENAN.

THE stars were shining bright, love,
The breeze was breathing low;
""Twas the witching time of night," love,

And all was still below.

My lips were pressed to thine, love,

And gazing in thine eyes,

I read that thou wert mine, love,
By thy softly breathed sighs,

The stars as bright, may burn, love,
The breeze as soft may blow;
But can that hour return, love?

Ah! Memory whispers, No.

The dream was all too sweet, love;
Too holy, long to last;

Yet still it checks Time's feet, love,
With memories of the past.

And though we may not feel, love,
As we have felt of yore,

'Twere wrong the heart to steel, love,
And dream of love no more.
I've gazed in many an eye, love,
That sparkled bright as thine,
And thou, full many a sigh, love,
Hast heard as soft as mine.

THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.

BY RICHARD H. DANA.

THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice? Why with that boding cry

O'er the waves dost thou fly?

O, rather, bird with me,

Through the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,
As driven by a beating storm at sea;
Thy cry is weak and scared,

As if thy mates had shared

The doom of us. Thy wail-
What does it bring to me?

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad; as if in strange accord

With motion, and with roar

Of waves that drive to shore,

One spirit did ye urge

The Mystery-the Word.

Of thousands thou, both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead.
From out thy gloomy cells,

A tale of mourning tells-
Tells of man's wo and fall,
His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring

Thy spirit never more.

Come, quit with me the shore,

For gladness and the light,

Where birds of summer sing.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.

BY WILLIAM O. B. PEABODY.

BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;

So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed!
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!

"Tis like the memory left behind

When loved ones breathe their last.

And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore,

And eyelids that are sealed in death
Shall wake to close no more.

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