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WHAT IS SOLITUDE.

There are birds in the woodland bowers,

Voices in lonely dells,
And streams that talk to the listening hours

In earth's most secret cells.
There is life on the foam-flecked sand,

By Ocean's curling lip,
And life on the still lake's strand

Mid flowers that o'er it dip;
There is life in the tossing pines

That plume the mountain crest,
And life in the courser's mane that shines

As he scours the desert's breast.

But go to the crowded mart,

Mid the sordid haunts of men,
Go there and ask thy heart,

What answer makes it then?
Go where the wine-cup's gleaming,

In hall or festal grot;
Where love-lit eyes are beaming,

But Love himself is not!
Go—if thou wouldst be lonely-

Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed,
And own that there—there only-

Mid crowds is Solitude.

LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.

BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.

O, it is life! departed days
Fling back their brightness while I gaze-
'Tis Emma's self—this brow so fair,
Half curtained in this glossy hair,
These eyes, the very home of love,
The dark twin arches traced above,
These red-ripe lips that almost speak,
The fainter blush of this pure cheek,
The rose and lily's beauteous strife-
It is ah no!-'tis all but life.

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LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.

'Tis all but life-art could not save
Thy graces, Emma, from the grave;
Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past,
Thy love-lit eyes have looked their last;
Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid,
All we adored of thee is hid;
Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell,
Is throbless in the narrow cell;
Thy gentle voice shall charm no more ;
Its last, last, joyful note is o’er.

Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung,
The requiem of the fair and young;
The theme is old, alas ! how old,
Of grief that will not be controlled,
Of sighs that speak a father's wo,
Of pangs that none but mothers know,
Of friendship with its bursting heart,
Doomed from the idol-one to part-
Still its sad debt must feeling pay,
Till feeling, too, shall pass away.

O say, why age, and grief, and pain,
Shall long to go, but long in vain ;
Why vice is left to mock at time,
And gray in years, grow gray in crime ;
While youth, that every eye makes glad,

LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.

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And beauty, all in radiance clad,
And goodness, cheering every heart,
Come, but come only to depart;
Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day,
Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away.

'Tis darkness all ! black banners wave
Round the cold borders of the grave;
There when in agony we bend
O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend,
One only comfort then we know-
We, too, shall quit this world of wo;
We, too, shall find a quiet place
With the dear lost ones of our race;
Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend,
And life's sad story find an end.

And is this all—this mournful doom?
Beams no glad light beyond the tomb ?
Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride;
They do not quench the orb they hide;
Still there it wheels—the tempest o'er,
In a bright sky to burn once more;
So, far above the clouds of time,
Faith can behold a world sublime-
There, when the storms of life are past,
The light beyond shall break at last.

STANZAS

BY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

“ How great are his signs, and how mighty are his wonders; His kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and his dominion is from generation to generation."-DANIEL.

I MARKED the Spring as she passed along,
With her eye of light and her lip of song;
While she stole in peace o'er the green Earth's breast,
While the streams sprang out from their icy rest:

The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh,
And their breath went forth in the scented sky;
When the fields looked fresh in their sweet repose,
And the young dews slept on the new-born rose.

I looked upon Summer ;—the golden sun
Poured joy over all that he looked upon;
His glance was cast like a gift abroad,
Like the boundless smile of a present God!
The stream shone glad in his magic ray-
The fleecy clouds o'er the green hills lay:
Over rich, dark woodlands their shadows went,
As they floated in light through the firmament,

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