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Sentimental Music-F. G. HALLECK.

SOUNDS as of far off bells came on his ears;
He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres ;
He was mistaken; it was no such thing;
'Twas Yankee Doodle, played by Scudder's band.
He muttered, as he lingered, listening,

Something of freedom, and our happy land; Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast, This sentimental song,-his saddest, and his last:

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"Young thoughts have music in them, love And happiness their theme;

And music wanders in the wind

That lulls a morning dream.
And there are angel voices heard,
In childhood's frolic hours,
When life is but an April day,
Of sunshine and of flowers.

"There's music in the forest leaves
When summer winds are there,
And in the laugh of forest girls
That braid their sunny hair.
The first wild bird that drinks the dew
From violets of the spring,
Has music in his song, and in

The fluttering of his wing.

"There's music in the dash of waves,

When the swift bark cleaves their foam;
There's music heard upon her deck-
The mariner's song of home-

When moon and star-beams, smiling, meet,
At midnight, on the sea;

And there is music once a week

In Scudder's balcony.

But the music of young thoughts too soon

Is faint, and dies away,

And from our morning dreams we wake

To curse the coming day.

And childhood's frolic hours are brief,

And oft, in after years,

Their memory comes to chill the heart,

And dim the eye with tears.

"To-day the forest leaves are green;

They'll wither on the morrow,

And the maiden's laugh be changed, ere long,

To the widow's wail of sorrow.

Come with the winter snows, and ask

Where are the forest birds;

The answer is a silent one,

More eloquent than words.

"The moonlight music of the waves
In storms is heard no more,

When the livid lightning mocks the wreck
At midnight on the shore;

And the mariner's song of home has ceased
His corse is on the sea;

And music ceases, when it rains,

In Scudder's balcony."

The Silk-Worm.-MRS. HALE.

THERE is no form upon our earth,
That bears the mighty Maker's seal,
But has some charm: to draw this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.

I saw a fair young girl-her face

Was sweet as dream of cherished friendJust at the age when childhood's grace And maiden softness blend.

A silk-worm in her hand she laid;

Nor fear, nor yet disgust, was stirred;
But gayly with her charge she played,
As 'twere a nestling bird.

She raised it to her dimpled cheek,
And let it rest and revel there:
O, why for outward beauty seek!
Love makes its favorites fair.

That worm-I should have shrunk, in truth, To feel the reptile o'er me move,

But, loved by innocence and youth,
I deemed it worthy love.

Would we, I thought, the soul imbue,
In early life, with sympathies
For every harmless thing, and view
Such creatures formed to please,-

And, when with usefulness combined,
Gives them our love and gentle care,-
O, we might have a world as kind
As God has made it fair!

There is no form upon our earth,

That bears the mighty Maker's seal,
But has some charm: to call this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.

The Reverie. Written from College on the Birth-Day of the Author's Mother.-FRISBIE.

No lights! they break the spell ;-away!
Let Fancy have her wildest play,
And, by the woodfire's cheery gleam,
Sit musing on her favorite theme,-
The dear domestic group, that meet,
This happy day, once more to greet,
With heartfelt warmth, and honest glee,
And infantile festivity.

O, as yon mirror's polished frame
Catches by fits the dying flame,
And indistinctly shows the moon
Half-shrouded in a glimmering gloom,-
O, could some wizard wave his wand,
And show me then the happy band!
-'Tis done like summer clouds that pass
At noontide o'er the sunny grass,
From the dark mirror flits away
The scene, in broken disarray,
And lo, to Fancy's charmed eyes
The gay illusion seems to rise.

I see thee, dearest mother, there,
In thine old-fashioned elbow-chair,
Thy knitting for a while laid by
To watch the children's revelry;
And her, I see her, by thy side,
Who marks them with a mother's pride,
Shares all their griefs, and all their joys,
And lives but in her favorite boys.
They now on pictured story pore,
Still pleased, so often pleased before;
Now lisp (their accents meet my ear)
The infant hymn thou lov'st to hear.
And now they join in frolic play,
And all are noisy, all are gay,
And health and innocency speak
In every plump and rosy cheek.
Ah me! what buoyant spirits there!
No thought, no sorrow, and no care:
That Age might for a while throw by
Its wrinkles and its gravity,
And e'en Philosophy might stoop,
To mingle with the frolic group.-
And now-'tis silence all, and gloom,
And my own solitary room.

The Soul's Defiance.*-ANONYMOUS

I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm,

That beat against my breast,

Rage on-thou may'st destroy this form,

And lay it low at rest;

But still the spirit, that now brooks

Thy tempest, raging high,

Undaunted, on its fury looks

With steadfast eye.

*This poem was written many years ago, by a lady, and written from experience and feeling. There is a very remarkable grandeur and power in the sentiments, sustained, as they are, by an energy of expression well suited to the spirit's undaunted defiance of misfortune.-ED.

I said to Penury's meagre train,
Come on your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures,

Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
With bitter smile.

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
Pass on-I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form
And being are forgot;

Yet still the spirit, which you see
Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility
Its high-born smiles.

I said to Friendship's menaced blow,
Strike deep-my heart shall bear ;
Thou canst but add one bitter wo
To those already there;

Yet still the spirit, that sustains
This last severe distress,

Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
And scorn redress.

I said to Death's uplifted dart,
Aim sure-0, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart-
A weak, reluctant prey;

For still the spirit, firm and free,

Triumphant in the last dismay,

Wrapt in its own eternity,

Shall smiling pass away

Hymn for the second Centennial Anniversary of the City of Boston.-J. PIERPONT.

BREAK forth in song, ye trees,
As through your tops the breeze
Sweeps from the sea;

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