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Yet not for thy proud ocean-streams,

Not for thine azure dome,—
Sweet sunny south!—I cling to thee,—

Thou art my native home!

Pve stood beneath Italia's clime,

Beloved of tale and song,—
On Helvyn's hills, proud and sublime,

Where nature's wonders throng,—
By Tempe's classic, sun-lit streams,

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,—
Peace sheds o'er thee her genial dew,

And freedom's pinions wave,—
Fair science flings her pearls around,

Religion lifts ber dome :—
These, these endear thee to my heart,—

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!—
Long as thy mountain barriers stand,

Mayst thou be blest and free!—
May dark dissension's banner ne'er

Wave o'er thy fertile loam,—
But should it come, there's one will die

To save his native home!



My prayer for thee, dearest, is not that thy way
May be sunny and bright as a calm summer day,
That no shadows may darken thy morning's blue sky,
No grief cloud thy spirit, no tear-drop thine eye;—
That the pleasures of earth, with her gayest of flowers,
May be strewed at thy footsteps to gladden life's hours,
And thy days, without sorrow or trial, may seem
Like the cherished remembrance of some hallowed

It vere vain. We may slumber in hope's chain secure,
Bn. her fabric is transient, and may not endure;
The visions most worshipped in morning's pure light,
We are destined to weep o'er in silence at night.

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! The first love!

There's nothing like the first love-
Other throes
The bosom knows,

But nothing like the first love.
The heart may smile
In bliss awhile

Where eyes are brightly beaming;

As when the sun

Its course has run,
We love the stars' soft gleaming:
But the first love! the first love!
There's nothing like the first love.

Other throes

The bosom knows,
But nothing like the first love.

Yes, mem'ry still

Our hearts will fill With the sweet hope that's perished—

And lesser light

Will sink in night
By that first fondly cherished—

As even in death

The rose's breath Outlives its sad decay;

So memory still

Our hearts will fill
With incense passed away.
O! the first love! the first love!
There's nothing like the first love—
Other throes

The bosom knows,
But nothing like the first love.



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 spotless essence of their hearts;
Their youthful chasteness, title page
The volumes of unsullied age,
While peace and war alike unfurls
The virtues of the Yankee girls.

The Yankee girls! oh what a charm!
'Twas that which nerved Columbia's arm!
Which arm in spite of tyranny
Declared this soil forever free;
Then while our standard round us furls,
The watchword be, the Yankee girls!

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