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I AM COME TO THIS SYCAMORE TREE.

BY WILLIAM MAXWELL.

I AM come to this sycamore tree,
And lay myself down in its shade:
The world has no pleasure for me;
The hopes of my youth are betrayed.
Flow on, thou sweet musical stream,
My murmurs shall mingle with thine;
My spirit is wrapt in a dream,

The sadness I feel is divine.

Hope took me, a gay little child,

And soothed me to sleep on her breast,
And, like my own mother, she smiled
O'er the dreams of my innocent rest.
Then beauty came whispering sweet,
Every word had a magical power;
And pleasure, with eyes of deceit,
Enticed me to enter her bower.

There love showed his glittering dart,
Just bathed in the nectar of bees;
While fancy persuaded my heart,

That his only design was to please.
And fame held her wreath of renown,
All blooming with laurels divine;
And promised the flourishing crown,
To circle these temples of mine.
*

Then I said to myself in my sleep,
How lovely is all that I see!
I shall Lever have reason to weep,
For the world is a garden to me.
But an angel came down from the skies,
And claimed me at once as her own;
Fair truth shed her light on my eyes,
And the shades of delusion are flown.

I sigh for the dreams of my youth,
All melted away into air;

Yet say, that the sweet light of truth
Betray my poor heart to despair?

Ah no! I may mourn for awhile,

Till my bosom is freed from its leaven; Then peace shall return with a smile, And faith waft my spirit to heaven.

LOVE, THE LEAVES ARE FALLING.

BY ROBERT S. COFFIN.

LOVE, the leaves are falling round thee;
All the forest trees are bare;

Winter's snow will soon surround thee,

Soon will frost thy raven hair:

Then say, with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,

Nor wait to hear sad autumn's prayer?

For winter rude

Will soon intrude,

Of

Nor aught of summer's blushing beauties spare.

Love, the rose lies withering by thee,

And the lily blooms no more;
Nature's charms will quickly fly thee,
Chilling rains around thee pour :
Oh, then with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,

Ere whirling tempests round thee roar,
And winter dread

Shall frost thy head,

And all thy raven ringlets silver o'er?

Love, the moon is shining for thee;
All the lamps of heaven are bright;
Holy spirits glide before thee,
Urging on thy tardy flight;

Then say, with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,

Nor wait the sun's returning light?

Time's finger rude,

Will soon intrude

Relentless, all thy blushing beauties blight.

Love, the flowers no longer greet thee,

All their lovely hues are fled!

No more the violet springs to meet thee,
Lifting slow its modest head:

Then say, with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,

And leave this darkling desert dread?

And seek a clime

Of joy sublime,

Where fadeless flowers a lasting fragrance shed?

THE PILLAR OF GLORY.

BY EDWIN C. HOLLAND.

HAIL to the heroes whose triumphs have brightened
The darkness which shrouded America's name;
Long shall their valour in battle that lightened,
Live in the brilliant escutcheons of fame :
Dark where the torrents flow,

And the rude tempests blow,
The storm-clad spirit of Albion raves;
Long shall she mourn the day,

When, in the vengeful fray,

Liberty walked like a god on the waves.

The ocean, ye chiefs, (the region of glory,

Where fortune has destined Columbia to reign,)

Gleams with the halo and lustre of story,

That curl round the wave as the scene of her fame: There, on its raging tide,

Shall her proud navy ride,

The bulwark of freedom, protected by heaven;
There shall her haughty foe,

Bow to her prowess low,

There shall renown to her heroes be given.

The Pillar of Glory, the sea that enlightens,
Shall last till eternity rocks on its base,
The splendour of fame its waters that brightens,
Shall light the footsteps of time in his race :
Wide o'er the stormy deep,

Where the rude surges sweep,

Its lustre shall circle the brows of the brave;
Honour shall give it light,

Triumph shall keep it bright,

Long as in battle we meet on the wave.

Already the storm of contention has hurled

From the grasp of Old England the trident of war, The beams of our stars have illumined the world, Unfurled our standard beats proud in the air: Wild glares the eagle's eye,

Swift as he cuts the sky,

Marking the wake where our heroes advance;
Compassed with rays of light,

Hovers he o'er the fight;

Albion is heartless-and stoops to his glance.

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