NEW ENGLAND. Yet unto thee, New England, still Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms, And thy rude chart of rock and hill Seem dearer than the land of palms; Thy massy oak and mountain pine More welcome than the banyan's shade; A HEALTH. BY E. C. PINKNEY. I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon; 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 fragrance and 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 re main ; 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. TO A LADY. BY G. D. I THINK of thee, when morning springs And when, at noon, the breath of love, And sent in music from the grove, I think of thee-I think of thee. I think of thee, when soft and wide The evening spreads her robes of light, And, like a young and timid bride, Sits blushing in the arms of Night. And when the moon's sweet crescent springs |