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No room for me by hearth or board,

No thought for me in head or breast, Felt e'en by those I most adored,

An undesired intruding guest.

Well! such may be--yet in my heart

Full many a still loved dead one dwells, Them no new loves shall bid depart,

Nor e'er usurp their sacred cells.

A smile should light them as they came,

(And fain would I their steps recal) And they should find me yet


same, The kiss for some--the heart for all.



Children of God, who, pacing slow,

Your pilgrim path pursue,
In strength and weakness, joy and woe,

To God's high calling true.

Why move ye thus-with lingering tread,

A doubtful mournful band ?
Why faintly hangs the drooping head ?

Why fails the feeble hand ?

Oh! wish to know the Saviour's power,

To feel a father's care;
A moment's toil, a passing shower

Is all the grief ye share.

The Lord of Light, though veiled awhile,

He hides his noon-day ray,
Shall soon in lovelier beauty smile

To gild the closing day;

And bursting through the dusky shroud,

That dared his power invest,
Ride throned in light o'er every cloud,
And guide you to his rest.

Bowdler. THE ROSE.

A rose in yonder garden grew

In summer beauty bright;
It fed upon the fragrant dew,

And bathed in beams of light.
The gentlest zephyrs still would creep

Warm o'er it from the west;
And the night spirit loved to weep

Upon its beauteous breast ;
And all the host of insect beaux
Would pause to trifle with the rose.

Alas! the flower;-one fatal night,

The mildew rode the gale, And from his pinions scattered blight

O’er garden, bower, and vale. I saw it in the sunny morn,

'Twas dying on its stem ; Yet wore, though drooping and forlorn,

Its dewy diadem ! But every roving butterfly Looked on the rose and wandered by!

The beams of morning had no power

Upon its faded cheek;
The breezes came, and found the flower,

They once had loved, a wreck.
They were old friends, and when they fled

Who used to linger here,
The rose would bow its gentle head

And shake away a tear :
But never raised its timid eye
To gaze again upon the sky.

It withered in the noon-day flame,

And when the shadows fell, The spirit of the evening came,

But vain its dewy spell.
The moon gleamed sad, the night breeze sighed,

Above the hapless flower,
But none who loved its day of pride

Watched o'er its fading hour.
The flatterers—they had long been gone,
It died neglected and alone.





God speed thee, Eustace D'Argencourt,-be brave as

thou art true, And wear the scarf I've woven for thee—this scarf of gold

and blue !' He bent his knee, he kissed her hand, and fervently be

swore, That till his sword had lost its might, till life's last pulse

was o'er, That scarf should never leave his arm, in tournament or

fight; That scarf should be his pride by day, his dream of joy

by night Then bounded he upon his steed, and with one parting

glance, Forth rode Sir Eustace D'Argencourt-the bravest knight in France.

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