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But though each shepherd's heart she charms,
And they before her bend,
A lover and a friend.
MARY WILL SMILE.
BY WILLIAM CLIFTON.
The mor n was fresh, and pure the gale,
When Mary, from her cot a rover, Plucked many a wild rose of the vale
To bind the temples of her lover. As near bis little farm she strayed,
Where birds of love were ever pairing, She saw her William in the shade,
The arms of ruthless war preparing. "Though now," he cried, " I seek the hostile plain, Mary shall smile, and all be fair again."
She seized his hand, and "Ah!" she cried,
Desert thy Mary's faithful side,
Yet go, brave youth! to arms away I
My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee, And when the drum beats far away,
I'll drop a silent tear and bless thee. Returned with honor from the hostile plain, Mary will smile, and all be fair again.
"The bugles through the forest wind,
The woodland soldiers call to battle,— Be some protecting angel kind,
And guard thy life when cannons rattle!"
In sunshine, when the storm is over,
The blush of promise to her lover.
BY SELLECK OSBOBN.
I've seen, in twilight's pensive hour,
The moss-clad dome, the mouldering tower,
In awful ruin stand;
I've seen, mid sculptured pride, the tomb
Unconscious of their fame;
And gained—an empty name!
I've seen in death's dark palace laid,
Cadaverous and pale!
The mistress of the vale.
I've seen, where dungeon damps abide,
In morbid fancy rave;
Learned, generous, and brave.
Nor dome, nor tower, in twilight shade,
To ruin all consigned—
The ruins of the mind!
I AM COME TO THIS SYCAMORE TREE.
BY WILLIAM MAXWELL.
I Am come to this sycamore tree,
And lay myself down in its shade:
The hopes of my youth are betrayed.
My murmurs shall mingle with thine;
The sadness I feel is divine.
Hope took me, a gay little child,
And soothed me to sleep on her breast,
O'er the dreams of my innocent rest.
Every word had a magical power;
Enticed me to enter her bower.
There love showed his glittering dart,
Just bathed in the nectar of bees;
That his only design was to please.
All blooming with laurels divine;
To circle these temples of mine.
Then I said to myself in my sleep,
How lovely is all that I see!
For the world is a garden to me.
And claimed me at once as her own;
And the shades of delusion are flown.
I sigh for the dreams of my youth,
All melted away into air;
Betray my poor heart to despair?
Till my bosom is freed from its leaven;
And faith waft my spirit to heaven.
LOVE, THE LEAVES ARE FALLING.
BY ROBERT S. COFFIN.
Love, the leaves are falling round thee;:
All the forest trees are bare;