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The big tear stood in her downcast eye,
And with sighs I heard her say,

"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,
Can charm but for a day."

Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye, And made her cheek so pale;

The maid had forgotten her early song,

While she listened to love's soft tale.

She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup;
It had wasted her life away:

And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,
Had charmed but for a day.

SONG OF THE HERMIT TROUT.

BY WILLIAM P. HAWES.

Down in the deep

Dark holes I keep,

And there in the noontide I float and sleep.
By the hemlock log,

And the springing bog,

And the arching alders, I lie incog.

The angler's fly

Comes dancing by,

But never a moment it cheats my eye;

For the hermit trout
Is not such a lout

As to be by a wading boy pulled out.

King of the brook,

No fisher's hook

Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook;
But here I lie,

And laugh as they try;

Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!

But when the streams,
With moonlight beams,

Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,
Then, then look out

For the hermit trout;

For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.

BY EPES SARGENT.

A LIFE on the ocean wave!

A home on the rolling deep!
Where scattered waters rave,
And the winds their revels keep!

Like an eagle caged, I pine

On this dull unchanging shore; Oh, give me the flashing brine, The spray, and the tempest's roar.

Once more on the deck I stand
Of my own swift gliding craft.
Set sail! farewell to the land:
The gale follows far abaft.
We sport through the sparkling foam
Like an ocean bird set free;
Like the ocean bird, our home
We'll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view,
The clouds have begun to frown;
But with a stout vessel and crew,
We'll say let the storm come down.
And the song of our hearts shall be,
While the winds and waters rave,
A life on the heaving sea!

A home on the bounding wave!
3*

THE DYING LEGACY.

BY J. M. CHURCH.

SAW ye the shadow o'er his brow,
The pallor o'er his cheek?
Saw ye the sadness in his eye,
And did ye hear him speak?
Ah! 'twas an impulse horrible
Inflamed his aged breast,
The blasting of his dying hopes,
His poor wife's sole bequest.

But late, a daughter, simple child,
Sat prattling on his knee,
The solace of his tottering days,
His poor wife's legacy!

And as he looked into her eyes,

And watched her childish glee,

He murmur'd, Dear, oh dear, thou art My poor wife's legacy.

"Tis now that old man, weak and wan,

Sits comfortless and lone,

His child, alas! poor fallen thing,
Sickening to think upon.

And as her image meets his thoughts,
They strive, they strive to flee,
In vain, poor fall'n Emma-he sobs,
My poor wife's legacy!

THE LAST BOUQUET.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

THERE's sadness in your bloom to-night,
My freshly-gathered flowers,

As though ye conscious emblems were
Of happy bygone hours;
Your fragrant breath floats heavily,
Each leaflet seems to say-
O'erwrit with fairy-graven lines-
It is the last bouquet.

When deeply in your buds ye slept,
I culled with heartfelt glee
Your gay compeers-the elder-born-
And twined them merrily,

To speak what flowers were made to tell,
And what they best can say,-
The olden charm bides not with ye,
Ye are Love's last bouquet.

O when each flowery nook is gleaned,
And nought remains to wreathe,
But shrubs all wild and flowerless,
That no sweet odours breathe,-
Unto perennial fields I'd fly,

Through upper gardens stray,
To tread again no desert track,
Nor cull a last bouquet!

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