And Echo, for fear she should lose it, Came down from her green-skirted hills, And faintly repeated the music To teach to her murmuring rills. And still the wild sonnet's repeated To sing to the notes of each fount. As the traveller strays through the woodland, From every meandering streamlet MY BEAUTIFUL PIERRE. BY MRS. HEWITT. My mother doth bid me forget thee, This heart tells me ne'er to deceive thee, Still chiding, my mother would move me Of halls decked with splendour she's telling, Oh! say, would their hearts beat like ours, WE HAVE MET TO REMEMBER THE DAY. BY JAMES FLINT. We have met to remember the day, When the Pilgrims first trod the bleak shore That gave them a home far away From the home they should visit no more. We will not forget what we owe them We have met to remember their deeds, And their rock-girdled refuge shall perish, We'll remember the faith of our sires, Their sun in their sojourn of gloom, That reflected from heaven's far spires, The bright halo of hope on the tomb. 'Twas to worship their God unmolested They left the loved scenes of their youth, For a land which no tyrant infested; Self-exiled for freedom and truth. We'll remember their wisdom, who reared, On the pillars of justice and right, A republic by sages revered, And dreaded by kings in their might. Of their skill and prophetic discerning, New England a monument stands, In her morals, religion, and learning, The glory and pride of all lands. The neat village, the school-house, and church, Her broad hills, her deep valleys, and streams, The tall pine, the rough oak, the smooth birch, Are all fresh in our day thoughts and dreams. O, New England, wherever sojourning, Thy children in sadness or mirth, By distance unweaned, with fond yearning We can never the pathways forget, Be our right hand bereft of its cunning, ART THOU HAPPY, LOVELY LADY? BY RUFUS DAWES. ART thou happy, lovely lady, In the splendour round thee thrown, Can the jewels that array thee, Bring the peace which must have flown? By the vows which thou hast spoken, That thy heart is sad and lone. There was one that loved thee, Mary! He loved thee, dearly loved thee, ONE HAPPY YEAR HAS FLED, SALL. BY J. R. DRAKE. ONE happy year has fled, Sall, Since you were all my own, The leaves have felt the autumn blight, The wintry storm has blown. We heeded not the cold blast, Nor the winter's icy air; For we found our climate in the heart, And it was summer there. |