NEW ENGLAND.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

LAND of the forest and the rock

Of dark blue lake and mighty river—

Of mountains reared aloft to mock

The storm's career, the lightning's shock-
My own green land for ever!

Land of the beautiful and brave

The freeman's home-the martyr's grave—

The nursery of giant men,

Whose deeds have linked with every glen,

And every hill, and every stream,

The romance of some warrior-dream!
Oh! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above

His childhood like a dream of love-
The stream beneath the green hill flowing—
The broad-armed trees above it growing—
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;
Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;

NEW ENGLAND.

Or mark the stranger's jaguar hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead-
The buried glory of a land

Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,—

Nor feel resentment, like a brand, Unsheathing from his fiery heart!

Oh! greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France
And streams, rejoicing as they run

Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange bough
With golden fruit is bending low;
And there may bend a brighter sky
green and classic Italy-

O'er

And pillared fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,

And over shaft and architrave

The green luxuriant ivy climb;
And far toward the rising sun

The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky,
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove

A thousand bright-hued pinions play!

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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;
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!

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;
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 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.