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He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurled down the chasm the thundering wave.

Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of

time— Cultivation has softened those features sublime; The axe of the white man has lightened the shade, And dispelled the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye,

On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;

Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,

Where the torrent leaps headlong embosomed in foam.

THE FADED ONE.

BY WILLIS 0. CLARK.

Gone to the slumber which may know no waking

Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell; Cone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,

In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom

Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath: A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,

A bond of loneliness—a spell of death I

Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee

Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee,

And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence,

Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance,

And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.

How have the garlands of thy childhood withered,

And hope's false anthem died upon the air! Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered,

And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,

Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust, Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,

Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust

WHEN ON THY BOSOM I RECLINE.

BY LINDLEY MURRAY.

When on thy bosom I recline,
Enraptured still to call thee mine,

To call thee mine for life,
I glory in the sacred ties,
Which modern wits and fools despise,

Of Husband and of Wife.

One mutual flame inspires our bliss;
The tender look, the melting kiss,

Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true,

That love can ne'er be cloyed.

Have I a wish ?—'tis all for thee;
Hast thou a wish ?—'tis all for me;

So soft our moments move,
That angels look with ardent gaze,
Well pleased to see our happy days,

And bid us live—and love.

If cares arise—and cares will come—
Thy bosom is my softest home,

I'll lull me there to rest;
And is there aught disturbs my fair?
I'll bid her sigh out every care,

And lose it in my breast.

Have I a wish ?—'tis all her own;
All hers and mine are rolled in one—

Our hearts are so entwined,
That, like the ivy round the tree,
Bound up in closest amity,

'Tis death to be disjoined.

MY OLD WIFE.

BY J. B. PHILLIPS.

Old Time has dimmed the lustre of her eyes, that

brightly shone, And her voice has lost the sweetness of its girlhood's

silvery tone, But her heart is still as cheerful as in early days of life, And as fondly as I prized my bride, I love my dear old

wife!

When the spring of life was in its bloom, and hope gave

zest to youth, We at the sacred altar stood, and plighted vows of truth. And since though changeful years have passed, with

joys and sorrows rife, Yet, never did I see a change in her, my dear old wife.

Her gentle love my cares have soothed, her smiles each

joy enhanced, As fondly through progressive years together we've

advanced; Though calmly now the current flows, we've known

misfortune's strife, Yet, ever did she cheer my woes, my faithful, fond old

wife.

And ever since that joyous day I blessed her as my

bride, In joy and sorrow, calm or storm, I found her at my side; And when the summons from above shall close the

scene of life, May I be called to rest with thee, my good, my dear

Old Wife!

IANTHE! ON THAT LOFTY BROW.

BY W. HENRY CARPENTER.

Ianthe! on that lofty brow

Thought sits as on a throne;
Yet, as thine eyes are beaming now

With love, and love alone,
My soul doth drink their beauty in,

As if by beauty nursed;
But oh! the more it seems to win,

The more it is athirst.

Then frown not if I look, my dear,

Too fondly in thine eyes;
Or list with too attent an ear

Thy musical replies.
How can mine eyes not glass thine own,

When lovingly they shine;
Or ho w can I not list the tone

That tells me thou art mine.

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