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Which was the living chronicle
Of deeds that wrought the change.

The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge,
The rose of Summer spread its glow,

The maize hung out its Autumn fringe,
Rude Winter brought his snow;

And still the lone one laboured there,

His shout and whistle woke the air,
As cheerily he plied

His garden spade, or drove his share
Along the hillock's side.

He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood
Roaring and crackling on its path,
And scorching earth and melting wood,
Beneath its greedy wrath;
He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot,
Trampling the pine tree with its foot,
And darkening thick the day
With streaming bough and severed root,
Hurled whizzing on its way.

His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,
The grim bear hushed his savage growl,

In blood and foam the panther gnashed
His fangs, with dying howl;

The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,

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Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,
And with its moaning cry,

The beaver sank beneath the wound
Its pond-built Venice by.

Humble the lot, yet his the race!
When Liberty sent forth her cry,
Who thronged in Conflict’s deadliest place,
To fight—to bleed—to die.
Who cumbered Bunker's height of red,
By hope, through weary years were led,
And witnessed York Town’s sun
Blaze on a Nation's banner spread,
A Nation's freedom won.

BALL AID.

B Y E. C. E M B U R Y. “La rose cueillie et le coeur gagne ne plaisent qu'un jour.”

THE maiden sat at her busy wheel,
Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth
Her bosom's harmless glee.
Her song was in mockery of love,
And oft I heard her say,
“The gathered rose, and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day.”

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,
And her lip so full and bright,
And I sighed to think that the traitor love,
Should conquer a heart so light:
But she thought not of future days of wo,
While she carolled in tones so gay;
“The gathered rose and the stolen heart,
Can charm but for a day.”

A year passed on, and again I stood
By the humble cottage-door;

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The maid sat at her busy wheel,
But her look was blithe no more;

The big tear stood in her downcast eye,
And with sighs I heard her say,

“The gathered rose, and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day.”

Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye,
And made her cheek so pale;

The maid had forgotten her early song,
While she listened to love's soft tale.

She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,
- It had wasted her life away :
And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,
Had charmed but for a day.

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SATURDAY AFTER NO ON.
B Y N. P. W I L L I S.

I LovE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man’s heart,
And makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years;
And they say that I am old,
And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well nigh told.
It is very true; it is very true;
I'm old, and “I'bide my time:”
But my heart will leap at a scene like this
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;

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