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IS IT THE WELCOME ROAR.

BY THOMAS 0. FOLSOM.

Is it the welcome roar

Of thundering signal gun ?— Hark! for the sound bursts through once more,

Rending night's robe of duu.

It is the welcome sound,

The joyous call to war, For the near bugle screams around

The cry to arms—hurrah!

From beauty's straining arms
And banquet pleasures spring,

Bring out the trusty sword and steed,
Our proud old banner bring;
The drum is rolling loud,
Clatters the ponderous car,

And mustering warriors onward crowd,
And blithely shout—hurrah!

The early dawn shall glance
On the long gleaming line,

Proudly the buoyant plume will dance,
And burnished bayonet shine;
The soldier's heart will leap
As trumpets ring afar,—

They summon him away to reap

His wreaths of fame—hurrah'

Lo! yonder comes the foe—

Rush on with gun and glaive,
For freedom 'tis ye strike below

The banner of the brave;

On—on, until they fly,

Their fiercest daring mar—
"Tis well! fling down the brand and cry

The victor shout—hurrah!

A HEALTH.

BY EDWARD C. PINKNkY.

I Fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that like the air, 'tis less of earth than
heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning

birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her

words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips

each flows As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the

rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours;

Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young flowers;

And lonely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,—the idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the

brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long

remain; But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's,

but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon—
Her health! and would on earth there stood some more

of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name. TIS THE BREAK OF DAY.

BY ROBERT WAIN.

Tis the break of day, and cloudless weather,
The eager dogs are all roaming together,
The moor-cock is flitting across the heather,

Up, rouse from your slumbers,
Away!

No vapour encumbers the day;

Wind the echoing horn,

For the waking morn
Peeps forth in its mantle of gray.

The wild-boar is shaking his dewy bristle,
The partridge is sounding his morning whistle,
The red-deer is bounding o'er the thistle,

Up, rouse from your slumbers,
Away!

No vapour encumbers the day;

Wind the echoing horn,

For the waking morn Peeps forth in its mantle of gray.

f

THE FUNERAL AT SEA.

BY HENRY J. fINN.

Deep mists hung over the mariner's grave
When the holy funeral rite was read;

And every breath on the dark blue wave
Seemed hushed, to hallow the friendless dead.

And heavily heaved on the gloomy sea,
The ship that sheltered that homeless one—

As though his funeral-hour should be
When the waves were still and the winds were gone.

And there he lay, in his coarse, cold shroud—
And strangers were round the coffinless:

Not a kinsman was seen among that crowd,
Not an eye to weep, nor a lip to bless.

No sound from the church's passing-bell
Was echoed along the pathless deep,

The hearts that were far away to tell
Where the mariner lies, in his lasting sleep.

Not a whisper then lingered upon the air—
O'er his body, one moment, his messmates bent;

But the plunging sound of the dead was there
And the ocean is now his monument!

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