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She search'd mid the pebbles, and finding one
Smooth, clear, and of amber dye,
She held it up to the morning sun,
And over her own mild eye.

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Then, Here,"
,” said she, “I will give you this,
That you may remember me !"

And she seal'd her gift with a parting kiss,
And fled from beside the sea.

Mary, thy token is by me yet.
To me 'tis a dearer gem

Than ever was brought from the mine, or set
In the loftiest diadem.

It carries me back to the far-off deep,
And places me on the shore,

Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep
Her pebble, I meet once more.

And all that is lovely, pure, and bright,
In a soul that is young, and free

From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight
Of sorrow, I find in thee.

I wonder if ever thy tender heart
In memory meets me there,

Where thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part,
Was caught by the ocean air.

Bless'd one! over time's rude shore, on thee
May an angel guard attend,

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
My birthplace and my home of youth:
How oft its scenes would memory draw,
Her tints the pencillings of truth:
Unto that spot 1 come once more,
The dearest life hath ever known;
And still it wears the look it wore,

Although twelve weary years have flown.
Again upon the soil I stand

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,
Yet in their sound what fancies dwell:
The hours of bliss, the days of grief,
The joys and woes remember'd well:
The hopes that fill'd the youthful breast,
Alas! how many a one o'erthrown!
Deep thoughts, that long have been at rest,
Wake at the words, twelve years have flown!
The past! the past! a saddening thought,
A withering spell is in the sound!
It comes with memories deeply fraught
Of youthful pleasure's giddy round;
Of forms that roved life's sunniest bowers,
The cherish'd few for ever gone :

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
Seek for the flowers that floated by [dream?
Upon the rushing mountain stream!
Yet gems beneath that wave may sleep,
Till after years shall make them known:
Thus golden thoughts the heart will keep,
That perish not, though years have flown.

WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

THE PAST.

THOU unrelenting Past!

Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
And fetters, sure and fast,

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
And glorious ages gone

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,

Youth, manhood, age, that draws us to the ground,
And last, man's life on earth,
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

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,
And struggles hard to wring

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
Earth's wonder and her pride

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
Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered;
With thee are silent fame,
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd.

Thine for a space are they :
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;
Thy gates shall yet give way,

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

All that of good and fair

Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
Shall then come forth, to wear

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;
Alone shall Evil die,

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

S

And then shall I behold

Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young.

THE PRAIRIES.

THESE are the gardens of the desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name→
The Prairies. I behold them for the first,

And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness.

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,
And motionless for ever. Motionless?
No, they are all unchain'd again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along, and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk, that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not-ye have play'd
Among the palms of Mexico and vines

Of Texas, and have crisp'd the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific-have ye fann'd

A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?

Man hath no part in all this glorious work :
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved

And smooth'd these verdant swells, and sown their

slopes

With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests.
For this magnificent temple of the sky-

Fitting floor

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