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Those voices which are silent,
Would bid thee clear thy brow—
We have been sad together,
Oh! what shall part us now?

THE LAND OF THE WEST.

By LOVER.

Он, come to the West, love-oh, come there with me,
'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea,
Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne-
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own;
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best,
And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West.

The South has its roses and bright skies of blue,
But ours are more sweet with Love's own changeful hue ;
Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I love best-
Oh, what is the South to the beautiful West!
Then come there with me, and the rose on thy mouth
Will be sweeter to me than the flowers of the South.

The North has its snow-tow'rs of dazzling array,
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er setting day-
There the Storm-King may dwell in the halls he loves best,
But the soft-breathing zephyr he plays in the West.
Then come to the West where no cold wind doth blow,
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow.

The sun in the gorgeous East chases the night,
When he rises refresh'd in his glory and might-
But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest—
Oh, doth he not haste to the beautiful West?
Then come there with me, 'tis the land I love best-
'Tis the land of my sires-'tis my own darling West.

THE ANGELS OF THE HOUSE.

By J. E. CARPENTER.

'Tis said that ever round our path
The unseen angels stray,

That give us blissful dreams by night,
And guard our steps by day.
But there's an angel in the house,
Meek, watchful and sincere,
That whispers words of hope to us
When none beside are near :
It is the one, the chosen one,
That's linked to us for life,
The angel of the happy home,
The faithful, trusting wife.

'Tis said that angels walk the earth—
I'm sure it must be so-

When round our path, scarce seen by us,
Such bright things come and go.

Are there not beings by our side

As fair as angels are,

As pure, as stainless, as the forms
That dwell beyond the star?

Yes! there are angels of the earth,

Pure, innocent and mild,

The angels of our hearts and homes,
Each loved and loving child.

THE WORLD'S AGE.

From Andromeda and other Poems, by CHARLES KINGSLEY.

WHO will say the world is dying!
Who will say our prime is past?
Sparks from Heaven within us lying,
Flash, and will flash till the last.
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;
Man a tool to buy and sell;
Earth a failure, God-forsaken,
Anteroom of hell.

Still the race of Hero-spirits

Pass the lamp from hand to hand;
Age from age the World inherits-
"Wife, and child, and fatherland."
Still the youthful hunter gathers
Fiery joy from wold to wood;
He will dare as dared his fathers
Give him cause as good.

While a slave bewails his fetters;
While an orphan pleads in vain;
While an infant lisps his letters,
Heir of all the ages' gain;
While a lip grows ripe for kissing;
While a moan from man is wrung;
Know, by every want and blessing,
That the world is young.

RESURGAM.

From a recently published volume of poems by Mr. Watson.

It is the noon of night;

The firmament is overflowed with stars;

The moon is up; and Light

Peers out, like a sad captive through his bars,
Upon the darkness round.

Deep silence broodeth over field and wood;
All heaven and earth seem bound,

Throbbing asleep in lap of Solitude.

Yet, but a little space,

This sleep of Nature will be overworn ;
And we shall watch, apace,

Returning Day mount up the gates of Morn;
Bearing vicissitude

To men; with novel thought and purpose rife;
Stirring the boundless brood

Of things; and quickening Nature into life.

There is a midnight, yet,

That bears a deeper silence in its breath,
When human hearts forget

To throb with hope and fear, the Night of Death.

A vague and solemn hour,

When Darkness gathers up the skirts of gloom,
Infolds the mortal flower,

And bears it withered to the lap of Doom.
And shall it then re-live,

Odour and blossom in a brighter day?
The spirit still survive,

When outward leaves of life are blown away?
Frail heart of flesh have faith,

Nor deem the spirit's golden visions vain!
Though dark the night of Death,

Bright is the morrow-morn, and thou shalt rise again!

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY, 1796.

By S. T. COLERIDGE.

SWEET flower! that peeping from thy russet stem
Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort

This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month
Hath borrow'd zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee
With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
E'en now the keen North-East is on its way.
Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee
To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth
Nipp'd by consumption mid untimely charms?
Or to Bristowa's Bard, the wondrous boy!
An Amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own,
Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong
Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope,
Bright flower of hope kill'd in the opening bud?
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine
And mock my boding! Dim similitudes
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour
From anxious Self, Life's cruel Taskmaster!
And the warm wooings of this sunny day

Tremble along my frame and harmonize

The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument.

THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK.

By CHARLES SWAIN.

OH! the old, old clock of the household stock
Was the brightest thing and neatest;

Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,
And its chime rang still the sweetest.

'Twas a monitor, too, though its words were few, Yet they lived though nations altered:

And its voice, still strong, warn'd old and young When the voice of friendship faltered!

"Tick, tick,” it said—“ quick, quick to bed—
For ten I've given warning:

Up, up, and go, or else you know,
You'll never rise soon in the morning."

A friendly voice was that old, old clock,

As it stood in the corner smiling,

And bless'd the time with a merry chime

The wintry hours beguiling:

But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock,

As it call'd at daybreak boldly,

When the dawn look'd gray o'er the misty way,

And the early air blew coldly :

Tick, tick," it said-" quick, out of bed,

For five I've given warning:

You'll never have health, you'll never get wealth,

Unless you're up soon in the morning."

Still hourly the sound goes round and round,

With a tone that ceases never :

While tears are shed for the bright days fled,
And the old friends lost for ever!

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