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Farewell! the sad tears that I weep for thee now,
Are the last that my spirit shall wring from its gloom; For thy death shed a promising light o'er my brow,
That showed a glad land 'neath the veil of the tomb! I'll join thee, my bride! where eternity's bow
Its iris-hued light on our union shall pour; And the spirits that death disunited below,
Shall mingle in Heaven, to sever no more!
UNFURL OUR STANDARD HIGH.
BY OWEN GRENLIFFE WARREN.
Unfurl our standard high!
Its glorious folds shall wave
Or ocean's surges lave!
With patriotic ire,
It shall their breasts inspire
Unfurl the stripes and stars!
Victorious on the field of Mars-
And when th' o'erruling fates decree
Thou, sacred banner of the free,
And never shall thy stars decline,
Till circling suns have ceased to shine.
I SEEK THEE NOT WHEN MIRTH IS HIGH.
BY MHS. DiPONTE.
I Seek thee not when mirth is high,
And all proclaim thee fair.
I feel thou art too dear.
I seek thee not amid the throng
And kneel before thee there.
I feel thou art too dear.
The vain and giddy follow thee;
Ah, little effort for that train
Believe that yet I love thee well,
That whispers thou art dear—
Whenever thou art near.
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,
Sporting with the sea-foam white,—
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 I 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. He obeyeth God's behest,
All their destiny fulfil:— Tempests some are born to breast;
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 be— Sea-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 sweet thy scenes on every hand!
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!