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The land where the aged find their youth,

And the young no whit'ning hair:

Oh! safe, my child, from both time and death-
Let us hope to meet thee there.

THE FRIEND OF OUR DARKER DAYS.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

"Twas said, when the world was fresh and young, That the friends of earth were few;

And shrines have blazed, and harps have rung,
For the hearts whose love was true!

And say, when the furrowing tracks of time
Lie deep on the old earth's brow,

The faith so prized in her early prime

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We know there are hands and smiles to greet

Our steps on the summit fair;

But lone are the climber's weary feet,

Where the steep lies bleak and bare.

For some have gain'd far heights and streams,
To their sight with morning crown'd;

But the sunrise shed on their hearts' first dreams,
And its light, they never found!

Yet, O for the bright isles seen afar,

When our sails were first unfurl'd,

And the glance that once was the guiding star
Of our green unwithered world!

And, O for the voice that spake in love,
Ere we heard the cold world's praise;
And one gourd in our promised noon, to prove
Like the friends of our darker days!

Alas! we have missed pure gems that lay
Where the rock seemed stern and cold;
And our search hath found but the hidden clay,
Where we dreamt of pure bright gold.

And dark is the night of changing years
That falls on the trust of youth,

Till the thorns grow up and the tangled tares

In the stronghold of its truth.

The shrines of our household gods, perchance We have seen their brightness wane;

And the love which the heart can give but once,
It may be given in vain ;

But still from the graves of better hopes-
From the depths of memory's maze,

One blessing springs to the heart and lips,
For the friend of our darker days.

WE ARE GROWING OLD.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

We are growing old-how the thought will risa
When a glance is backward cast

On some long-remembered spot that lies
In the silence of the past:

It may be the shrine of our early vows,
Or the tomb of early tears;

But it seems like a far-off isle to u

In the stormy sea of years.

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!

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But oh the changes we have seen
In the far and winding way-

The graves in our path that have grown greez
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 no
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 wakos,
And the woods their youth renew?
We have stood in the light of sunny brakes
Where he 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.

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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 i

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 st und
Still, hearts that are bravest and best of the nations
Shall glory and live in the songs of their land!

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