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Yet not for thy proud ocean-streams,
Not for thine azure dome,—
Thou art my native home!
Pve 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 ber 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 t
Land of the south!—imperial land!
Then here's a health to thee!—
Mayst thou be blest and free!—
Wave o'er thy fertile loam,—
To save his native home!
MY PRAYER FOR THEE, DEAREST.
BY OLIVER WENDELL WITHINGTON.
My prayer for thee, dearest, is not that thy way
It vere vain. We may slumber in hope's chain secure,
And yet, when I bend to that Being on high,
Whose throne is the Heaven—who illumines the sky.
Thou still art remembered, beloved, and there
Thy name ever breathed in the stillness of prayer :—
That thy soul may be turned from the vain things of
earth. Thy young heart be changed by a holier birth, That his spirit within its recesses may come, And meet in thy spirit a calm, perfect home. And when thy glad eye shall wax languid and dim, May thy thoughts turn to heaven, thy spirit to him; And when death's bitter draught thou art destined to
sip, May his peace be around thee, his name on thy lip.
THE FIRST LOVE.
BY FREDERICK WEST.
The first love! The first love!
There's nothing like the first love-
But nothing like the first love.
Where eyes are brightly beaming;
As when the sun
Its course has run,
The bosom knows,
Yes, mem'ry still
Our hearts will fill With the sweet hope that's perished—
And lesser light
Will sink in night
As even in death
The rose's breath Outlives its sad decay;
So memory still
Our hearts will fill
The bosom knows,
THE YANKEE GIRLS.
BY MICAH HAWKINS.
Histoeians, poets, painters, all,
Yes, all mankind, since Adam's fall,
Have toasted with a vivid glare
The glowing charms of ancient fair,
But I am one of those blind-sided churls
Who think none so pretty as the Yankee girla.
Their unassuming mien imparts
The Yankee girls! oh what a charm!