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NEVER DESPAIR.

W. C. RICHARDS.

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HIS motto I give to the young and the old,

More precious by far than a treasure of gold;
'Twill
prove

to its owner a talisman rare,
More potent than magic-—'tis Never Despair!

No, never despair, whatsoe'er be thy lot,

If Fortune's gay sunshine illumine it not;
Mid its gloom, and despite its dark burden of care,
If thou canst not be cheerful, yet, Never Despair!

Oh! what if the sailor a coward should be,
When the tempest comes down, in its wrath on the sea,
And the mad billows leap, like wild beasts from their lair
To make him their prey, if he yield to Despair?

But see him amid the fierce strife of the waves,
When around his frail vessel the storm demon raves;
How he rouses his soul up to do and to dare!
And, while there is life left, will Never Despair!

Thou, too, art a sailor, and Time is the sea,
And life the frail vessel that upholdeth thee;
Fierce storms of misfortune will fall to thy share,
But, like the bold mariner, Never Despair!

Let not the wild tempest thy spirit affright,
Shrink not from the storm, tho' it come in its might;
Be watchful, be ready, for shipwreck prepare,
Keep an eye on the life-boat, and Never Despair.

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TO THE EVENING WIND.

W. C. BRYANT.

[“ The Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication; but this,-we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souver either English or American, has there ever. appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of Bryant's style-his chaste elegance, both in thought and expression, ornament enough, but not in profusion or display, -imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarly soothing,-select and melodious language,-harmony in the flow of the stanza,-gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy.” Geo. B. Cheever's Poets of America, p. 265.]

PIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou

That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;

Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high

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their spray,

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the littlewood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And 'twixt the o’er-shadowing branches and the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's þed,

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

That is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,

Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to the murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

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OD of the earth's extended plains!

The dark green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky:
The tall cliff challenges the storin

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,

With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Have summoned up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dashed like foam,

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!

The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;

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