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Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit oppress'd,
O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine--
Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast,
And some pleasure must kindle in mine!

Then say not the world is a desert of thrall,
There is bloom, there is light, on the waste;
Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall,
There are honey-drops, too, for the taste.

CUPID'S ARROW.

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,
And besought him to look at his arrow.

"'Tis useless," he cried; "you must mend it, I say;
'Tis n't fit to let fly at a sparrow.

There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart,
For it flutters quite false to my aim;

'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart,
And the world really jests at my name.

"I have straightened, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare,
I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;
"Tis feathered with ringlets my mother might wear,
And the barb gleams with light from young eyes;
But it falls without touching-I'll break it, I vow,
For there's Hymen beginning to pout;

He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low
That Zephyr might puff it right out."

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,
Till Vulcan the weapon restored.

"There, take it, young sir; try it now-if it fail,
I will ask neither fee nor reward."

The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made;

The wounded and dead were untold;

But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade,
For the arrow was laden with gold.

NATURE'S GENTLEMAN.

Whom do we dub as gentleman ?-the knave, the fool, the brute-
If they but own full tithe of gold, and wear a courtly suit!
The parchment scroll of titled line-the ribbon at the knee,
Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high degree:
But Nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born,
And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn;
She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half divine,
And cries, exulting, "Who can make a gentleman like mine!"

She may not spend her common skill about the outward part,
But showers her beauty, grace, and light, upon the brain and heart;
She may not choose ancestral fame his pathway to illume-
The sun that sheds the brightest day may rise from mist and gloom;
Should fortune pour her welcome store and useful gold abound,
He shares it with a bounteous hand, and scatters blessings round;
The treasure sent is rightly spent, and serves the end designed,
When held by Nature's gentleman—the good, the just, the kind.
He turns not from the cheerless home where sorrow's offspring dwell;
He'll greet the peasant in his hut-the culprit in bis cell;
He stays to hear the widow's plaint of deep and mourning love;
He seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above:
The orphan child-the friendless one-the luckless, or the poor,
Will never meet his spurning frown, or leave his bolted door;
His kindred circles all mankind-his country all the globe-
An honest name his jewelled star, and truth his ermine robe.
He wisely yields his passions up to reason's firm control;
His pleasures are of crimeless kind, and never taint the soul;
He may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life,
But will not love the revel scene, or heed the brawling strife.
He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honeyed tongue;
He's social with the gray-haired one, and merry with the young;
He gravely shares the council speech, or joins the rustic game,
And shines as Nature's gentleman in every place the same.
No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pompous tone his word,
No studied attitude is seen, no palling nonsense heard;
He'll suit his bearing to the hour-laugh, listen, learn, or teach;
With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candor in his speech:
He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed :
He would not blame another's faith, nor have one martyr bleed :
Justice and Mercy form his code-he puts his trust in Heaven;
His prayer is, "If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven!"
Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are,
Each shining in his hallowed sphere, as virtue's polar star;
Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and dark,
Yet, yet some bosoms breathe and burn, lit by Promethean spark;
There are some spirits nobly just, unwarped by pelf or pride,
Great in the calm, but greater still when dashed by adverse tide :
They hold the rank no king can give-no station can disgrace;
Nature puts forth her gentlemen, and monarchs must give place.

THE MOURNERS.

King Death sped forth in his dreaded power,

To make the most of his silent hour;

And the first he took was a white-rob'd girl,

With the orange-bloom twin'd in each glossy curl;

The fond betroth'd hung o'er her bier,

Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear;

He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain,
With frantic speech and burning brain;

"There's no joy," said he, "now my dearest is gone; Take, take me, Death! for I cannot live on!"

The Sire was robb'd of his eldest born,

And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn;
Other scions were 'round, as good and fair,
But none seem'd so bright as the deathless heir.
"My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry;
"Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die !"
The valued Friend was snatch'd away,
Bound to another from childhood's day;

And the one that was left exclaim'd in despair,
"Oh, he sleeps in the tomb, let me follow him there!"

A Mother was taken, whose constant love

Had nestled her child like a fair young dove;

And the heart of that child to the mother had grown
Like the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone;
Nor loud nor wild was the burst of woe,
But the tide of anguish was strong below;
And the reft one turn'd from all that was light,
From the flowers of day and the stars of night—
Breathing where none might hear or see,
"Where thou art, my mother! thy child would be!"

Death smil'd as he heard each earnest word-
Nay, nay," said he, "be this work deferr'd;
I'll see thee again in a fleeting year,

And if grief and devotion live on sincere,
I promise thee then thou shalt share in the rest
Of the being pluck'd from thy doting breast;
Then if thou cravest the coffin and pall,

As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall!”

And Death fled-till Time on his rapid wing,
Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king.

But the Lover was ardently wooing again,
Kneeling in serfdom and proud of his chain;
He had found an idol to adore,

Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before;

His step was gay, his laugh was loud,

As he led the way for the bridal crowd;

And his brow own'd not a moment's shade,

Though he pass'd o'er the grave where his lost love laid: "Ha, ha!" cried Death, " 'tis passing clear

That I am a guest not wanted here!"

The Father was seen in his children's games

Kissing their flush'd brows and blessing their names; And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms

Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms;

His voice rang out in the merry noise,

He was first in all their hopes and joys;

He ruled their sports in the setting sun,
Nor gave a thought to the missing one!

"Are ye ready?" cried Death, as he raised his dart"Nay, nay," shrieked the father, "in mercy depart!"

The Friend again was quaffing the bowl,
Warmly pledging his faith and soul;
His bosom cherish'd, with glowing pride,
A stranger form that sat by his side;
His hand the hand of that stranger press'd,
He prais'd his song, he echoed his jest ;

And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate
Made a blank of the name so prized of late:
"See, see!" cried Death, as he hurried past,
"How bravely the bonds of friendship last!"

But the Orphan-Child—oh, where was she?
With clasping hands and bending knee,
All alone on the churchyard sod,

Mingling the names of "Mother" and "God;"
Her dark and sunken eye was hid,

Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid;
Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill,
Betraying the wound was unhealed still;
And her smother'd prayer was heard to crave
A speedy home in the selfsame grave.

Hers was the love all holy and strong,
Hers was the sorrow fervent and long;
Hers was the spirit whose light was shed
As an incense fire above the dead.

Death linger'd there-and paus'd awhile,

But she beckon'd him on with a welcoming smile : "There's a solace," cried he, " for all others to find; But a mother leaves no equal behind!"

And the kindest blow death ever gave

Laid the mourning child in its parent's grave.

THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE.

We gathered round the festive board,

The crackling fagot blazed,

But few would taste the wine that poured,

Or join the song we raised.

For there was now a glass unfilled

A favored place to spare;

All eyes were dull, all hearts were chilled-
The loved one was not there.

No happy laugh was heard to ring,
No form would lead the dance;
A smothered sorrow seemed to fling
A gloom in every glance.

The grave had closed upon a brow,

The honest, bright, and fair;

We missed our mate, we mourned the blow-
The loved one was not there.

HOME IN THE HEART.

Oh! ask not a home in the mansions of pride,
Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls;
Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold,
And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls.
But seek for a bosom all honest and true,

Where love, once awakened, will never depart;
Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest,

And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart. Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere,

That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care;
Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just,

And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare.
Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot,
The cheek-searing tear-drops of sorrow may start,
But a star never dim sheds a halo for him

Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart.

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HARVEST SONG.

I love, I love to see

Bright steel gleam through the land;
'Tis a goodly sight-but it must be
In the reaper's tawny hand.

The helmet and the spear

Are twined with laurel wreath;
But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear,
And blood-spots rest beneath.

I love to see the field

That is moist with purple stain;

But not where bullet, sword, and shield,
Lie strown with gory slain.

No, no; 'tis when the sun

Shoots down his cloudless beams,

Till the rich and bursting juice-drops run
On the vineyard earth it streams.

My glowing heart beats high
At the sight of shining gold;

But is not that which the miser's eye
Delighteth to behold.

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