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Above, let care and fear contend,
ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON.
BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
It is not the fear of death
That damps my brow,
I ask thee now;
And a quiet heart—
Ere I depart.
I can give up my mother's look—
My sister's kiss;
A death like this!
I burned to win—
I glory in.
Thine is the power to give,
Thine to deny,
Calmness to die.
By my dying breath,
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,
No powdered menials stand:
That lures but to betray?
To cheer his lonely way!
They tell me that my charmer owns
No proud ancestral line,
No courtly emblems shine:
Alas, o'er many a courtier's brow
And jewels oft have flashed around
Then cease, the fruitless theme forego,
Nor mock my pure desire;
That kindles to expire!
Be mine the blissful lot
In palace or in cot.
HOME, SWEET HOME.
BY J. HOWARD PAYNE.
Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There's no place like home.
An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,
The birds singing gaily that came at my call;
Home, home, sweet, sweet hone,
There's no place like home.
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,