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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
O'er green and classic Italy-
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;

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TO A LADY.

BY G. D. PRENTICE.

I THINK of thee, when morning springs
From sleep with plumage bathed in dew,
And, like a young bird, lifts her wings
Of gladness on the welkin blue.

And when, at noon, the breath of love,
O'er flower and stream is wandering free,

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
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea,
And stars are forth like blessed things,
I think of thee-I think of thee.

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