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And when th' o'erruling fates decree
The bolt of war to throw,
Shalt daunt the bravest foe;
I SEEK THEE NOT WHEN MIRTH IS HIGH.
BY MRS. DAPONTE.17
I seek thee not when mirth is high,
And all proclaim thee fair.
I feel thou art too dear. spill
I seek thee not amid the throng ?
And kneel before thee there. .
I feel thou art too dear.
The vain and giddy follow thee;
They murmur in thine ear!
Ah, little effort for that train
They feel not thou art dear.
Believe that yet I love thee well,
That whispers thou art dear-
BY ANNA MARIA WELLS.
SEA-BIRD! haunter of the wave,
Delighting o'er its crest to hover; Half engulfed where yawns the cave
The billow forms in rolling over ; Sea-bird ! seeker of the storm!
In its shriek thou dost rejoice; Sending from thy bosom warm
Answer shriller than its voice
Bird, of nervous winged flight,
Flashing silvery to the sun, Sporting with the sea-foam white, When will thy wild course be done?
Whither tends it? Has the shore
No alluring haunt for thee?
Scented shrub, or leafy tree?
Is the purple sea-weed rarer
Than the violet of the spring ? Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer
Than the apple's blossoming ? Shady grove and sunny slope,
Seek but these, and thou shalt meet Birds not born with storm to cope,
Hermits of retirement sweet
Where no winds too rudely swell,
But in whispers, as they pass,
Hidden in the tender grass.
There the robin builds his nest;
Brooding, takes her blissful rest.
Sea-bird-stay thy rapid flight:
Gone!-Where dark waves foam and dash, Like a lone star on the night,
Far I see his white wing flash.
All their destiny fulfil :
Some, to worship and be still.
If to struggle with the storm
On life's ever changing sea, Where cold mists enwrap the form,
My harsh destiny must beSea-bird ! thus may I abide
Cheerful the allotment given, And rising o'er the ruffled tide,
Escape at last, like thee, to Heaven.
LAND OF THE SOUTH.
BY ALEXANDER B. MEEK.
LAND of the south !-imperial land !
How proud thy mountains rise !
How fair thy covering skies !
I love thy fields to roam,-
Thou art my native home!
Thy rivers roll their liquid wealth,
Unequalled, to the sea,Thy hills and valleys bloom with health,
And green with verdure be!
Yet not for thy proud ocean-streams,
Not for thine azure dome,
Thou art my native home!
I've stood beneath Italia's clime,
Beloved of tale and song,
Where nature's wonders throng,-
Where gods, of old, did roam,But ne'er have found so fair a land
As thou-my native home!
And thou hast prouder glories too,
Than nature ever gave,-
And freedom's pinions wave,-
Religion lifts her dome :
My own loved native home!
And “heaven's best gift to man” is thine,
God bless thy rosy girls ! Like sylvan flowers, they sweetly shine,
Their hearts are pure as pearls ! And grace and goodness circle them,
Where'er their footsteps roam,How can I then, whilst loving them,
Not love my native home?