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Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible-the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier;
And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-
Come in her crowning hour-and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men: Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land wind, from woods of palm, And orange groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee-there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,

In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb : But she remembers thee as one

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Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings her birth-day bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch, and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears:
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh:
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

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Believe it not-though lonely
Thy evening home may be;
Though Beauty's bark can only
Float on a summer sea;

Though Time thy bloom is stealing,
There's still beyond his art
The wild-flower wreath of feeling,
The sunbeam of the heart.

LOVE.

-The imperial votaress pass'd on

In maiden meditation, fancy free.

Midsummer Night's Dream.

Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?

BENEDICT, in Much Ado about Nothing.

WHEN the tree of love is budding first,
Ere yet its leaves are green,

Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nurst
Its infant life has been;

The wild bee's slightest touch might wring
The buds from off the tree,

As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing
Breaks the bubbles on the sea.

But when its open leaves have found
A home in the free air,

Pluck them, and there remains a wound
That ever rankles there.

The blight of hope and happiness

Is felt when fond ones part,

And the bitter tear that follows is
The life-blood of the heart.

When the flame of love is kindled first, "Tis the fire-fly's light at even,

'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst
In the blue of the summer heaven.

A breath can bid it burn no more,
Or if, at times, its beams

Come on the memory, they pass o'er
Like shadows in our dreams.

But when that flame has blazed into
A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew

That fell in its first warm hour,

'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head,

Whose task is to destroy;

'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead,

Whose light is not of joy!

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,
The infant buds of Love,

And tread his growing fire to earth,
Ere 't is dark in clouds above;
Cherish no more a cypress tree
To shade thy future years,
Nor nurse a heart-flame that
Quench'd only with thy tears.

may

be

CONNECTICUT.

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea
That murmurs at their feet, a conquer'd wave;
'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;
Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands, are bold and free,
And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave;

And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray,
Nor even then, unless in their own way.

Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,

A "fierce democracie," where all are true
To what themselves have voted-right or wrong-
And to their laws denominated blue;

(If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;)

A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the west.

A justice of the peace, for the time being,
They bow to, but may turn him out next year ;
They reverence their priest, but disagreeing

In price or creed, dismiss him without fear;

They have a natural talent for foreseeing

And knowing all things;—and should Park appear From his long tour in Africa, to show

The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-"we know."

They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,

And think it kindness to his majesty ;

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.

Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling;

Or wandering through southern countries, teaching
The A. B. C. from Webster's spelling-book;
Gallant and godly, making love and preaching,
And gaining, by what they call "hook and crook,"
And what the moralists call overreaching,

A decent living. The Virginians look
Upon them with as favorable eyes

As Gabriel on the devil in paradise.

But these are but their outcasts. View them near
At home, where all their worth and pride is placed
And there their hospitable fires burn clear,

And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced
With manly hearts, in piety sincere,

Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste,

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave,
Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave.

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control

Is felt even in their nation's destiny;

Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul,
And look'd on armies with a leader's eye;

Names that adorn and dignify the scroll,

Whose leaves contain their country's history,

And tales of love and war-listen to one,

Of the Green-Mountaineer-the Stark of Bennington.

When on that field his band the Hessians fought,
Briefly he spoke before the fight began-

"Soldiers! those German gentlemen are bought

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