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Daughter of Babylon!

Blest be that chosen one,

Whom God shall send to smite thee when there is

none to save;

He from the mother's breast,

Shall pluck the babe at rest,

And lay it in the sleep of death beside its father's grave.

TO *

THE world is bright before thee,
Its summer flowers are thine,
Its calm blue sky is o'er thee,
Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine;

And thine the sunbeam given
To Nature's morning hour,
Pure, warm, as when from heaven
It burst on Eden's bower.

There is a song of sorrow,

The death-dirge of the gay, That tells, ere dawn of morrow, These charms may melt away, That sun's bright beam be shaded, That sky be blue no more, The summer flowers be faded, And youth's warm promise o'er.

Believe it not-though lonely

Thy evening home may be; Though Beauty's bark can only

Float on a summer sea;

Though Time thy bloom is stealing, There's still beyond his art

The wild-flower wreath of feeling,

The sunbeam of the heart.

THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS,

SARATOGA.

STRANGERS! your eyes are on that valley fixed
Intently, as we gaze on vacancy,

When the mind's wings o'erspread

The spirit-world of dreams.

True, 'tis a scene of loveliness—the bright

Green dwelling of the summer's first-born Hours, Whose wakened leaf and bud

Are welcoming the morn.

And morn returns the welcome, sun and cloud

Smile on the green earth from their home in heaven,

Even as a mother smiles

Above her cradled boy,

And wreath their light and shade o'er plain and mountain,

O'er sleepless seas of grass whose waves are flowers, The rivers' golden shores,

The forests of dark pines.

The song of the wild bird is on the wind,
The hum of the wild bee, the music wild
Of waves upon the bank,

Of leaves upon the bough.

But all is song and beauty in the land,
Beneath her skies of June; then journey on,
A thousand scenes like this

Will greet you ere the eve.

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