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Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;

There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hack it down i Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand— Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,

Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

THE SEXTON.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

Nigh to a grave, that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-wom spade:
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral train through the open gate:
A relic of by-gone days was he,
And his locks were white as the foamy sea—
And these words came from his lips so thin,
"I gather them in! I gather thern in!"

"I gather them in! for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around
In every nook of this burial ground.
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude, one by one—
But come they strangers or come they kin,
I gather them in! I gather them in!

"Many are with me, but still I'm alone!

I am king of the dead—and I make my throne

On a monument slab of marble cold,

And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold.

Come they from cottage or come they from hall—

Mankind are my subjects—all, all, all!

Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin—

I gather them in 1 I gather them in I

"I gather them in—and their final rest,
Is here, down here in the earth's dark breast"—
And the sexton ceased—for the funeral train
Wound mutely over that solemn plain:
And I said to my heart—when time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old
Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din—
"I gather them in! I gather them in!"

HASTE, BOATMAN, HASTE.

BY MISS CASTELLO.

Boat ahoy! boat ahoy! boat ahoy!

Haste, boatman, haste, there's not to-night
Or mist or cloud we may discover,

The air is pure, the moon is bright,
Unmoor thy bark and row me over.

The nightingale at distance calls,
The willows wave amid the gloaming,

Gay lights, like glow-worms gem those walls,
And yon fair lady awaits my coming.

Haste, boatman, such a stream and shore,
And such a star to guide a lover,

Should give new vigour to thine oar,—
Then take thy bark and row me over.

Dost thou not hear her soft guitar,
And softer voice, the echoes swelling?

Dost thou not mark yon guiding star,
Whose rays are beaming o'er her dwelling 1

OH! FLY TO THE PRAIRIE.

BY JOHN K. MITCHELL.

Oh! fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me,
'Tis as green and as wild and as wide as the sea,
O'er its soft silken bosom the summer winds glide,
And wave the wild grass in its billowy pride;
The fawns in the meadow fields fearlessly play,—
Away to the chase, lovely maiden, away.
Bound, bound to thy courser, the bison is near,
And list to the tramp of the light-footed deer.

The woodsman delights in his trees and his shade,
But see 1 there's no sun on the cheek of his maid;
His flowers are blighted, his blossoms look pale,
And mildew is riding his vaporous gale.
Hurrah for the prairie! no blight on its breeze,
No mist from the mountains, no shadow from trees,
It steals incense loaded that gale from the west,
As bees from the prairie-rose fly to the nest.

Oh! fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me,
The vine and the prairie-rose cluster for thee,
And hailing the moon in the prairie-propt sky,
The mocking-bird echoes the katydid's cry.
Oh! there's nothing to cloy in the wilds of the west,
Each day has its pleasure, each evening its rest:
Then fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with ms,
'Tis as green and as wild and as wide as the sea.

THE SICILIAN CRUSADER'S RETURN.

BY WILLIAM J. SNELLING.

Awake, awake, my own true love!

My lady bright, arise!
The sparkling orbs that roll above
Shall veil their light, afraid to prove

The lustre of thine eyes.
The air is bland, the eastern breeze,

O'er ocean's heaving bosom stealing,
Derives fresh fragrance from the trees
Of verdant isles that gem the seas,

Their spicy odours all revealing.

When sleep prevails thine eyelids o'er,

Dost ever dream of me?
Amidst the loud artillery's roar,
The savage voice of stormy war,

I ever thought on thee.

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