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THE ELM-TREES.

I DO remember me,

Of two old elm-trees shade,
With mosses sprinkled at their feet,
Where my young childhood play'd,
While the rocks above their head,
Rose up so stern and gray,
And the little crystal streamlet near,
Went leaping on its way.

There, side by side they flourish'd,

With intertwining crown,

And through their broad embracing arms,
The prying moon look'd down,
And I dream'd as there I linger'd,

A musing child alone,

She scann'd my bosom's inmost thought, From her far, silver throne.

I do remember me,

Of all their wealth of leaves,

When Summer, in her radiant loom,

The burning solstice weaves,

And how with firm endurance,
They brav'd an adverse sky,
Like Belisarius, doom'd to meet,
His country's wintry eye.

I've roam'd through varied regions,
Where stranger-streamlets run,

And where the proud magnolia flaunts,
Beneath a southern sun,

And where the sparse, and stinted pine, Puts forth its sombre form,

A vassal to the northern cloud,

And to the tyrant storm,

And where the pure, unruffled lakes,
In placid wavelets roll,

Or where the dread Niagara shakes,
The wonder-stricken soul,

I've sought the temple's sculptur'd pile,

The pencil's glorious art,

Yet still, those old green

Depictur'd on my heart.

trees I wear,

Years fled; my native vale I sought,
Where those tall elm-trees wave,

But many a column of its trust,

Lay broken in the grave,

The ancient and the white-hair'd men,
Whose wisdom was its stay,

For them I ask'd, and echo's voice,
Made answer, "where are they?"

I sought the thrifty matron,
Whose busy wheel was heard,
When the early beams of morning,
Awoke the chirping bird,

Strange faces from her window look'd,
Strange voices fill'd her cot,

And 'neath the very vine she train❜d,
Her memory was forgot.

I left a youthful mother,

Her children round her knee, Those babes had risen into men, And coldly look'd on me,

But she, with all her bloom and grace,

Did in the church-yard lie,

While still those changeless elms upbore,

Their kingly canopy.

Though we, who 'neath their lofty screen,

Pursued our childish play,

Now show amid our scatter'd locks,

The sprinkled tints of gray,

And though the village of our love,

Must many a change betide,

Long may those sacred elm-trees stand,
In all their strength and pride.

THE LONGEST DAY.

FROM us, if every fleeting hour,
Improvement's boon may ask,
The longest day must surely claim,
The most important task.

But since the longest day must end,
The happiest life decay,

Let wisdom's hand, and wisdom's voice,
Direct our youthful way.

And when we rise, let morning's eye

Convey the lesson sweet,
And ere we sleep, an angel's sigh
The sacred rule repeat,

Patient to render good to all,

Within our bounded sphere,
The active deed, the grateful word,
The sympathizing tear.

To raise the heart to Him who gives
Our path with hope to shine,
Meekly receive the cup of joy,
Or tranquilly resign,

To let no fear disturb the breast,
No doubt obscure our sky,
Since Virtue cannot live unblest,
Or unrewarded die.

THE FRIENDS OF MAN.

THE young babe sat on its mother's knee,
Shaking its coral and bells with glee,
When Hope drew near with a seraph smile,
To kiss the lips that had breath'd no guile,
No words of sin or sorrow:

Its little sister brought a flower,
And Hope still lingering nigh,
With sunny tress and sparkling eye,
Whisper'd of buds, in a brighter bower,
It might pluck for itself to-morrow.

The boy came in from the wintry snow,
And mus'd by the parlor-fire,
But ere the evening lamps did glow,

A stranger came, and bending low,
Kiss'd his fair and ruddy brow;

"What is that in your hand?" she said:
66 My New-Year's Gift, with its covers red."
"Bring hither the book, my boy, and see,
The magic spell of Memory,

Those pages have gold, and a way I'll find,
To lock it safe in your docile mind;

For books have honey, the sages say,

That is sweet to the soul, when the hair is grey."

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