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Above, let care and fear contend,
With sin and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.

ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON.

BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

It is not the fear of death

That damps my brow,
It is not for another breath

I ask thee now;
I can die with a lip unstirred

And a quiet heart—
Let but this prayer be heard

Ere I depart.

I can give up my mother's look—

My sister's kiss;
I can think of love—yet brook

A death like this!
I can give up the young fame

I burned to win—
All—but the spotless name

I glory in.

Thine is the power to give,

Thine to deny,
Joy for the hour I live—

Calmness to die.
By all the brave should cherish,

By my dying breath,
I ask that I may perish

By a soldier's death!

THEY SAY THAT NE'ER BY FORTUNE'S GALE.

BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

They say that ne'er by fortune's gale

My hero's brow was fanned,
That round his tall and graceful form

No powdered menials stand:
What care I for the glittering dross

That lures but to betray?
Love claims affection's holier gems

To cheer his lonely way!

They tell me that my charmer owns

No proud ancestral line,
That, sparkling on his manly breast,

No courtly emblems shine:

Alas, o'er many a courtier's brow
Dark falsehood's ensigns wave,

And jewels oft have flashed around
Foul passion's palsied slave.

Then cease, the fruitless theme forego,

Nor mock my pure desire;
Not mine the transient, flickering flame

That kindles to expire!
Fortune I spurn, her gifts despise;

Be mine the blissful lot
With him life's ills and joys to share

In palace or in cot.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

BY J. HOWARD PAYNE.

Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with else-
where.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home,

There's no place like home.

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,
O give me my lowly thatched cottage again;

The birds singing gaily that came at my call;
Give me these, with peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home, home, sweet, sweet hone,

There's no place like home.

THE BUCKET.

BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

How dear to this neart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood,

And ev'ry loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;

For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,

As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation,

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in his well.

MY GENEROUS HEART DISDAINS.

BY FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

My generous heart disdains

The slave of love to be,
I scorn his servile chains,
And boast my liberty.
This whining
And pining
And wasting with care,
Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair.

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