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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
Where'er the land looks to the sky,

Or ocean's surges lave!
And when, beneath its shade, the brave,

With patriotic ire,
Combat for glory or the grave,

It shall their breasts inspire
With that chivalric spark which first
Upon our foes in terror burst!

Unfurl the stripes and stars!
They evermore shall be

Victorious on the field of Mars-
Triumphant on the sea!

And when th' o'erruling fates decree
The bolt of war to throw,

Thou, sacred banner of the free,
Shalt daunt the bravest foe;

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,
When homage beams from every eye,

And all proclaim thee fair.
In hours like these I do not move
Around thee with light words of love,—

I feel thou art too dear.

I seek thee not amid the throng
Who fascinate with voice and song,

And kneel before thee there.
Oh no, I flatter not, nor vow
When others kneel, when others bow,—

I feel thou art too dear.

The vain and giddy follow thee;
They proffer love's idolatry,
They murmur in thine ear!

Ah, little effort for that train
Love's outward agony to feign,
They feel not thou art dear.

Believe that yet I love thee well,
My soul yet owns the secret spell

That whispers thou art dear—
The spell that makes all language weak,
That sends the fever to my cheek

Whenever thou art near.

THE SEA-BIRD.

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?
Nook, with tangled vines grown o'er,

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,
Of the fragrant flow'ret tell,

Hidden in the tender grass.
There the mock-bird sings of love;

There the robin builds his nest;
There the gentle-hearted dove,

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!
But not for this,—oh, not for these,

I love thy fields to roam,—
Thou hast a dearer spell to me,—

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!

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