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THE SMILE OF INNOCENCE.

And there's a smile on nature's face

When evening spreads her shades around;

It is a smile which angels might
Upon their brightest lists enrol.

It is the smile of innocence,
Of sleeping infancy's light dream;

Like lightning on a summer's eve,
It sheds a soft, a pensive gleam.

It dances round the dimpled cheek,

And tells of happiness within; It smiles what it can never speak,

A human heart devoid of sin.

175 MEMOKY.

[graphic]

BY W. G. CLARK.

'T is sweet, to remember! I would not forego

The charm which the Past o'er the Present can throw,

For all the gay visions that Fancy may weave

In her web of illusion, that shines to deceive.

We know not the future,—the past we have felt,

Its cherished enjoyments the bosom can melt;

Its raptures anew o'er our pulses may roll,

When thoughts of the morrow fall cold on the soul.

'T is sweet, to remember! When storms are abroad,
We see in the rainbow, the promise of God:
The day may be darkened,—but far in the west,
In vermilion and gold, sinks the sun to his rest;
With smiles like the morning he passeth away:
Thus the beams of delight on the spirit can play,
When in calm reminiscence we gather the flowers,
Which Love scattered round us in happier hours.

'Tis sweet to remember! When friends are unkind,—
When their coldness and carelessness shadow the mind:

MEMORY. 177

Then, to draw back the veil which envelopes a land,
Where delectable prospects in beauty expand;
To smell the green fields,—the fresh waters to hear,
Whose once fairy music enchanted the ear;
To drink in the smiles that delighted us then,—
To list the fond voices of childhood again,—
Oh, this the sad heart, like a reed that is bruised,
Binds up, when the banquet of Hope is refused.

'T is sweet, to remember! And naught can destroy
The balm-breathing comfort, the glory, the joy,
Which spring from that fountain, to gladden our way,
When the changeful and faithless desert or betray.
I would not forget! — though my thoughts should be dark:
O'er the ocean of life, I look back from my bark,
And I see the lost Eden, where once I was blest,
A type and a promise of heavenly rest.

NEW ENGLAND.

B Y 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. 179

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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