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TO A WAVE.

Spangles of the ore of silver, Which with playful singing mouth, Thou hast leaped on high to pilfer?

Mournful Wave! I deemed thy song
Was telling of a floating prison,
Which when tempests swept along,
And the mighty winds were risen,
Foundered in the ocean's grasp,

While the brave and fair were dying.
Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp
In thy folds as thou wert flying?

Hast thou seen the hallowed rock,

Where the pride of kings reposes,
Crowned with many a misty lock,
Wreathed with samphire green and roses?
Or with joyous playful leap

Hast thou been a tribute flinging

Up that bold and jutting steep,

Pearls upon the south wind stringing?

Faded Wave! a joy to thee

Now thy flight and toil are over!

Oh! may my departure be

Calm as thine, thou ocean rover!
When this soul's last joy or mirth
On the shore of time is driven,
Be its lot like thine on earth,
To be lost away in heaven.

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PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.

PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.

BY C. SHERRY.

AWAY! away! I will not hear

Of aught but death or vengeance now;

By the eternal skies, I swear

My knee shall never learn to bow!
I not hear a word of peace,

or grasp in friendly grasp a hand, Linked to the pale-browed stranger race, That work the ruin of our land.

Before their coming, we had ranged
Our forests and our uplands free;
Still let us keep unsold, unchanged,
The heritage of liberty.

As free as roll the chainless streams,
Still let us roam our ancient woods;
As free as break the morning beams,
That light our mountain solitudes.

Touch not the hand they stretch to you; The falsely proffered cup, put by; Will you believe a coward true?

Or taste the poison draught to die? Their friendship is a lurking snare, Their honor but an idle breath;

Their smile-the smile that traitors wear; Their love is hate, their life is death.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

Plains which your infant feet have roved,
Broad streams you skimmed in light canoe,
Green woods and glens your fathers loved-
Whom smile they for, if not for you?
And could your fathers' spirits look

From lands where deathless verdure waves,
Nor curse the craven hearts that brook
To barter for a nation's graves!

Then raise once more the warrior song,
That tells despair and death are nigh;
Let the loud summons peal along,
Rending the arches of the sky.
And till your last white foe shall kneel,
And in his coward pangs expire—
Sleep-but to dream of brand and steel,
Wake-but to deal in blood and fire!

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

THE Roman sentinel stood helmed and tall
Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread
Of comers in the city mart was done,
For it was almost noon, and a dead heat
Quivered upon the fine and sleeping dust,
And the cold snake crept panting from the wall

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THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

To bask his scaly circles in the sun.
Upon his spear the soldier leaned and kept
His drowsy watch, and as his waking dream
Was broken by the solitary foot

Of some poor mendicant, he raised his lids,
To curse him for a tributary Jew,

And slumberously dozed on.

"T was now high noon.

The dull, low murmur of a funeral

Went through the city-the sad sound of feet
Unmixed with voices-and the sentinel
Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly
Up the wide street along whose paved way
A mourning throng wound slowly. They came on,
Bearing a body heavily on its bier,

And by the throng that in the burning heat

Walked with forgetful sadness-'t was of one
Mourned with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate
Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent
His spear-point downwards as the bearers passed
Bending beneath their burden. There was one-
Only one mourner. Close behind the bier,
Crumpling the pall up in her withered hands,
Followed an aged woman. Her slow steps
Faltered with weakness, and a broken moan
Fell from her lips, thickened convulsively
As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd
Followed apart, but no one spoke to her—
She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone—
A widow with one son. He was her all-

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

The only tie she had in the wide world—
And this was he. They could not comfort her.

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Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate
The funeral came forth. His lips were pale
With the noon's fainting heat. The beaded sweat
Stood on his forehead, and about the worn
And simple latchets, of his sandals lay
Thick the white dust of travel. He had come
Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not,
To wet his lips at green Bethsaida's pool,
Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side
To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze.
Genesareth stood cool upon the East,
Fast by the sea of Galilee, and there
The weary traveller would rest till eve:
And on the alders of Bethulia's plains
The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild;
Yet turned he not aside, but gazing on
From every swelling mount, beheld afar
Amid the hills the humble spires of Nain,
The place of his next errand; and the path
Touched not Bethulia, and a league away
Upon the East lay breezy Galilee.

He thought but of his work. And ever thus
With godlike self-forgetfulness he went
Through all his missions-healing sicknesses
Where'er he came, and never known to weep
But for a human sorrow, or to stay

His feet but for some pitying miracle.

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