Oh! wide and wild are the waves that part

Our steps from its greenness now;
And we miss the joy of many a heart,

And the light of many a brow;
For deep o'er many a stately bark

Have the whelming billows rolled,

That steered with us from that early markOh! friends, we are growing old!

Old in the dimness and the dust
Of our daily toils and cares,
Old in the wrecks of love and trust

Which our burdened memory bears.
Each form may wear to the passing gaze,
The bloom of life's freshness yet,
And beams may brighten our latter days,
Which the morning never met.

But oh! the changes we have seen

In the far and winding way-

The graves in our path that have grown green
And the locks that have grown gray!

The winters still on our own may spare
The sable or the gold;

But we saw their snows upon brighter hair-
And, friends, we are growing old!

We have gain'd the world's cold wisdom now We have learn'd to pause and fear;

But where are the living founts, whose flow

Was a joy of heart to hear?

We have won the wealth of many a clime,
And the lore of many a page;

But where is the hope that saw in Time
But its boundless heritage?

Will it come again when the violet wakes,
And the woods their youth renew?
We have stood in the light of sunny brakes,
Where the bloom was deep and blue;

And our souls might joy in the spring-time then,
But the joy was faint and cold;

For it ne'er could give us the youth again
Of hearts that are growing old.

SONGS OF OUR LAND.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

Songs of our land, ye are with us forever;

The power and the splendor of thrones pass away; But yours is the might of some far-flowing river,

Through summer's bright roses or autumn's decay. Ye treasure each voice of the swift-passing ages,

And truth, which Time writeth on leaves or on sand; Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and sages, And keep them among us, old songs of our land!

The bards may go down to the place of their slumbers,
The lyre of the chamber be hushed in the grave;
But far in the future the power of their numbers
Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and brave.
It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely,
Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze fann'd;
It will call up a spirit for freedom, when only
Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land!

For they keep a record of those, the true-hearted,
Who fell with the cause they had vowed to maintain;
They show us bright shadows of glory departed,

Of love that grew cold, and the hope that was vain.

The page may be lost, and the pen long forsaken,

And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave heart and hand;

But ye are still left, when all else hath been taken,

Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of our land!

Songs of our land, ye have followed the stranger,
With power over ocean and desert afar;

Ye have gone with our wand'rers thro' distance and danger
And gladden'd their path like a home-guiding star.
With the breath of our mountains in summers long vanish'd,
And visions that passed like a wave from the sand,
With hope for their country and joy for her banish'd,
Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our land!

The spring-time may come with the song of her glory,
To bid the green heart of the forest rejoice;'
But the pine of the mountain, though blasted and hoary,
And the rock in the desert, can send forth a voice.
It is thus in their triumph for deep desolations;

While ocean waves roll, or the mountains shall stand;
Still, hearts that are bravest and best of the nations
Shall glory and live in the songs of their land!

THE END.