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A LOVE SONG.
A. P. GRAVES.
Ah! swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness,
Jewel of joys, arise!
Unto his sunburst flies,
Full of my captive sighs.
The dawn is dark to me; hark, oh! hark to me,
Pulse of my heart, I pray,
Dazzle me with thy day!
Passion so sweet and gay,
Laughing on every spray.
THE SOURCE OF HAPPINESS.
Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold ? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief?
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold. -
'Tis when the rose is wrapped in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there
Its life and beauty; not when, all unrolled, Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air.
Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know,Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow; The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours,
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. THE MYSTERIOUS MUSIC OF OCEAN.
ONELY and wild it rose,
That strain of solemn music from the sea,
An ocean mystery.
Again a low, sweet tone,
Then died away.
Once more the gush of sound,
And fled again.
O boundless deep! we know
Sunlight is sealed.
And an eternal spring
O'er golden sand.
THE MYSTERIOUS MUSIC OF OCEAN
But tell, O restless main!
The joy they breatbe?
Emblem of glorious might!
Which cannot fade?
Or to mankind allied, Toiling with wo, and passion's fiery sting, Like their own home, where storms or peace preside,
As the winds bring?
Alas for human thought!
Of finer mold!
'Tis vain the reckless waves Join with loud revel the dim ages flown, But keep each secret of their hidden caves
Dark and unknown.
N. P. WILLIS.
HE Spring is here—the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and Tel And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wastingin wood-paths its voluptuous hoursA feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things.
pass out from the city's feverish hum,
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods.
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
And the light whisper as their edges meet-
There's no contentment, in a world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream;