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Maidens who, like the young Crescent,
Turning away your pale brows
From earth, and the light of the Present,
Look'd to your Heavenly Spouse-
Say, through what region enchanted
Walk ye, in heaven's sweet air?
Or, oh, to whom is it granted,

Bright souls, to dwell with you there?

Though War's high-sounding harp may be

Most welcome to the hero's ears,

Alas, his chords of victory

Are bathed, all o'er, with tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run,
Who hymn, like saints above,

No victor, but the Eternal One,
No trophies but of Love!

GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT.
Air-STEVENSON.

Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,'
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
From that time,' when the moon upon Ajalon's vale,
Looking motionless down,3 saw the kings of the earth,
In the presence of God's mighty Champion, grow pale-
Oh never had Judah an hour of such mirth!
Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

Bring myrtle and palm-bring the boughs of each tree That is worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.4 From that day, when the footsteps of Israel shone,

With a light not their own, through the Jordan's deep tide,

Whose waters shrunk back as the Ark glided on-5
Oh never had Judah an hour of such pride!
Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.
Air-HAYDN.

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,
When the spirit leaves this sphere,
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her

To those she long hath mourn'd for here?
Hearts, from which 't was death to sever,

Eyes, this world can ne'er restore, There, as warm, as bright as ever,

Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking

Of earth and heaven, where are they, Beneath whose smile we once lay baskingBlest, and thinking bliss would stay!

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING. Hope still lifts her radiant finger

Air-ANONYMOUS.

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing,

Whose theme is in the skiesLike morning larks, that sweeter sing The nearer heaven they rise!

Though Love his wreathed lyre may tune,
Yet ah' the flowers he round it wreathes
Were pluck'd beneath pale Passion's moon,
Whose madness from their odour breathes.
How purer far the sacred lute,

Round which Devotion ties

Sweet flowers that turn to heav'nly fruit,
And palm that never dies.

Pointing to the eternal home, Upon whose portal yet they linger, Looking back for us to come.

And that they should publish and proclaim in all their C and in Jerusalem, saying, Go forth unto the mount, and fext. ~~ branches, etc. etc.-Neh. vii, 15.

2. For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun, unto that dry, be not the children of Israel done so; and there was very grea. glede w -16. 17.

3 Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the mley of Ajalon.-Jush, s. 12.

4. Fetch olive-branches and pine-branches, and myrtle-bran and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make hp staan, m Neh. vi, 15,

5. And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the 1 stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the is as passed over on dry ground.-Josh in. 17.

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<<< She is lovely!» Then love her, nor let the bliss fly;
T is the charm of youth's vanishing season:
Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,
Dear Fanny?

DID NOT.

'T WAS a new feeling-something more Than we had dared to own before, Which then we hid not, which then we hid not. We saw it in each other's eye,

And wish'd, in every murmur'd sigh,

To speak, but did not; to speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassion'd touch"T was the first time I dared so much, And she chid not, and yet she chid not; yet But whisper'd o'er my burning brow, «Oh! do you doubt I love you now?» Sweet soul! I did not; sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I press 'd it closer, closer still,

Though gently bid not, though gently bid not;
Till-oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly err'd,
And yet who did not, and yet who did not.

FANNY, DEAREST!

On! bad I leisure to sigh and mourn,

Fanny, dearest! for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn

To tears, when thou art nigh. But, between love, and wine, and sleep,

So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!

The love, that's order'd to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest! thy image lies;
But, oh! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 't is but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beam clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow-
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;

If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

FANNY WAS IN THE GROVE.

FANNY was in the grove,

And Lubin, her boy, was nigh; Her eve was warm with love,

And her soul was warm as her eye. Oh! oh! if Lubin now would sue, Oh! oh! what could Fanny do?

Fanny was made for bliss,

But she was young and shy; And when he had stolen a kiss,

She blush'd, and said with a sigh— « Oh! oh! Lubin, ah! tell me true, Gh! oh! what are you going to do?»

They wander'd beneath the shade, Her eye was dimm'd with a tear, For ah! the poor little maid

Was thrilling with love and fear. Oh! oh! if Lubin would but sue, Oh! oh! what could Fanny do?

Sweetly along the grove

The birds sang all the while, And Fanny now said to her love,

With a frown that was half a smile-«Oh! oh! why did Lubin sue?

Oh! oh! why did Lubin sue?»

Viver en Cadenas.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. FROM life without freedom, oh! who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark!—hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave. The death-song of tyrants and dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. From life without freedom, oh! who would not fly! For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh! even if Freedom from this world be drives,
Despair not-at least we shall find her in heaven.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

HERE'S the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;

Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie,

Where's the lip to breathe them? Here's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touchOh! how that touch enchanted!

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Neer shall feel its sweetness!
Time, that once so fleetly moved,

Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she stray'd,
Days were moments near her;

1

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I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

I SAW the moon rise clear

O'er hills and vales of snow,
Nor told my fleet rein-deer
The track I wish'd to go.
But quick he bounded forth;

For well my rein-deer knew
I've but one path on earth-
The path which leads to you.

The gloom that winter cast
How soon the heart forgets!
When summer brings, at last,
The sun that never sets.
So dawn'd my love for you;
Thus chasing every pain,
Than summer sun more true,
"T will never set again.

JOYS THAT PASS AWAY. Joys that pass away like this, Alas! are purchased dear, If every beam of bliss

Is follow'd by a tear.

Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!
Soon, too soon thou 'st broke the spell.
Oh! I ne'er can love again

The girl whose faithless art
Could break so dear a chain,

And with it break my heart.

Once, when truth was in those eyes, How beautiful they shone;

But now that lustre flies,

For truth, alas! is gone.

Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!

How I've loved my hate shall tell.

Oh! how lorn, how lost would prove

Thy wretched victim's fate,

If, when deceived in love,

He could not fly to hate!

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

LIGHT Sounds the harp when the combat is overWhen heroes are resting, and joy is in bloomWhen laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. But, when the foe returns,

Again the hero burns;

High flames the sword in his hand once more;
The clang of mingling arms

Is then the sound that charms,
And brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets roar.
Oh! then comes the harp, when the combat is over-
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom-
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest—
When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their

nest.

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