She search'd mid the pebbles, and finding one Then, Here," And she seal'd her gift with a parting kiss, Mary, thy token is by me yet. Than ever was brought from the mine, or set It carries me back to the far-off deep, Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep And all that is lovely, pure, and bright, From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight I wonder if ever thy tender heart Where thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part, Bless'd one! over time's rude shore, on thee And 66 a white stone bearing a new name," ," be Thy passport when time shall end! PROSPER M. WETMORE. "TWELVE YEARS HAVE FLOWN." TWELVE years have flown since last I saw Although twelve weary years have flown. Where first my infant footsteps stray'd; Again I view my "father-land," And wander through its pleasant shade: I gaze upon the hills, the skies, The verdant banks with flowers o'ergrown, And while I look with glistening eyes, Almost forget twelve years are flown. Twelve years are flown! those words are brief, Of dreams that fill'd life's morning hours, Where are they now? Twelve years have flown!. A brief but eloquent reply! Where are youth's hopes—life's morning WILLIAM C. BRYANT. THE PAST. THOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, manhood, age, that draws us to the ground, Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my carlier friends-the good-the kind, Yielded to thee with tears The venerable form-the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back: yearns with desire intense, The bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. In vain thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Nor to the streaming cye Thou giv'st them back, nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown: to thee Are gather'd, as the waters to the sca; Labours of good to man, Unpublish'd charity, unbroken faith: Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and falter'd not in death. Full many a mighty name Thine for a space are they : Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, The glory and the beauty of its prime. They have not perish'd-no! Kind words, remember'd voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul's apparent seat, All shall come back; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again; And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. S And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young. THE PRAIRIES. THESE are the gardens of the desert, these And my heart swells, while the dilated sight In airy undulations, far away, Lo! they stretch As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fix'd, Of Texas, and have crisp'd the limpid brooks A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? Man hath no part in all this glorious work : And smooth'd these verdant swells, and sown their slopes With herbage, planted them with island groves, Fitting floor |