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Weep yet not bitter tears;
Let them be holy, silent, free from pain:
Thiuk of me as a bird who, many years,

Was in a galling chain;

A chain that let it gaze
On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er
It strove to rush away, or fondly raise

Ito wing, still bound it there.

And bring sometimes a flower To scatter on the turf I lie beneath, And gather it in that beloved bower hat round us used to wreathe.

And whatsoe'er the time Thou comest,--at the morn, or eve, or night, When dewdrops glisten, when the faint bells chime,

Or in the moon’s pale light,

Still keep this thought, (for sweet It was to me when such bright hope was given,) That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet,

Ay, surely meet, in heaven.

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THE quiet August noon is come;
A slumberous silence fills the sky,
The fields are still, the woods are dumb,
In glassy sleep the waters lie.
And mark yon soft white clouds, that rest
Above our vale, a moveless throng;
The cattle on the mountain's breast
Enjoy the grateful shadow long.

O, how unlike those merry hours
In sunny June, when earth laughs out;

When the fresh winds make love to flowers, <
And woodlands sing and waters shout!-

When in the grass sweet waters talk,
And strains of tiny music swell

From every moss-cup of the rock,
From every nameless blossom's bell!

But now, a joy too deep for sound,
A peace no other season knows,

Hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground—
The blessing of supreme repose.

Away! I will not be, to-day,
The only slave of toil and care;

Away from desk and dust, away!
I’ll be as idle as the air.

Beneath the open sky abroad,
Among the plants and breathing things,

The sinless, peaceful works of God,
I’ll share the calm the season brings.

Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see
The gentle meaning of the heart,

One day amid the woods with thee,
From men and all their cares apart.

And where, upon the meadow's breast
The shadow of the thicket lies,

The blue wild flowers thou gatherest
Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes

Come—and when, amid the calm profound,
I turn, those gentle eyes to seek,

They, like the lovely landscape round,
Of innocence and peace shall speak.

Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade,
And on the silent valleys gaze,

Winding and widening till they fade
In yon soft ring of summer haze.

The village trees their summits rear
Still as its spire; and yonder flock,

At rest in those calm fields, appear
As chiselled from the lifeless rock.

One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks,
Where the hushed winds their sabbath keep,

While a near hum, from bees and brooks,
Comes faintly like the breath of sleep.

Well might the gazer deem, that when,
Worn with the struggle and the strife,

And heart-sick at the sons of men,
The good forsake the scenes of life,

Like the deep quiet, that awhile
Lingers the lovely landscape o'er,

Shall be the peace whose holy smile
Welcomes them to a happier shore.

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“I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is ; behold her, and }. for yourseives.—There is her history. The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for inde: pendence, now lie mingled with the soil of ever, state, from §: England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever.”—Webster's Specch

NEw ENGLAND’s DEAD ! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife, made red
By bloody victory.
Each valley, where the battle poured
Its red and awful tide,
Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviors of the land!

O, few and weak their numbers were—
A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,
To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men 2
And where are ye to-day?
I call:—the hills reply again
That ye have passed away;
That on old Bunker's lonely height,
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,
Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more ;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.
The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,
From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

-o-
Installation Hymn.-PIERPont.

“LET there be light!”—When from on high,
O God, that first commandment came,

Forth leaped the sun; and earth and sky
Lay in his light, and felt his flame.

“Let there be light!”—The light of grace
And truth, a darkling world to bless,

Came with thy word, when on our race
Broke forth the Sun of Righteousness.

Light of our souls' how strong it grows!
at sun, how wide his beams he flings
As up the glorious sky he goes,
With i.i. and healing in his wings!

Give us that light! O God, 'tis given!
Hope sees it open heaven's wide halls

To those who for the truth have striven;
And Faith walks firmly where it falls.

Churches no more, in cold eclipse,
Mourn the withholding of its rays;

It gilds their gates, and on the lips

fevery faithful preacher plays.

Doth not its circle clasp the brows
Of him who, in the strength of youth,

Gives himself up, in this day's vows,
A minister of grace and truth 2

Long may it, Lord ;-nor let his soul
Go through death's gloomy vale alone;

But bear it on to its high goal,
Wrapped in the light that veils thy throne.

-oThe Wanderer of Africa.-ALoNzo LEwis.

HE launched his boat where the dark waves flow, Through the desert that never was white with snow, When the wind was still, and the sun shone bright, And the stream glowed red with the morning light.

He had sat in the cool of the palm's broad shade,
And drank of the fountain of Kafnah’s glade,
When the herb was scorched by the sun's hot ray,
And the camel failed on his thirsty way.

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