"Gather the young, the fair, the free, "It comes when summer skies are bright, An early rest in the sullen pall, One dream with the death pang wove- PSALM CXXXVII. COME Sweep the harp! one thrilling rush That oft have breathed its wires along : The shrine is gone that claim'd the prayer, And exiles o'er the distant earth, How can we wake the carol there? One sigh, my harp! and then to sleep, And thus we sever; fare thee well! GEORGE P. MORRIS Is a native of New York. In 1823, in conjunction with Mr Woodworth, he established a paper in New York, called The New York Mirror and Ladies' Literary Gazette; of this he is now the editor. He is the author of a dramatic piece, entitled Brier Cliff. WOMAN. AH! woman-in this world of ours, If destined to exist alone, And ne'er call woman's heart his own. My mother!-at that holy name, My life-blood gives a sudden rush, Yes, woman's love is free from guile, THE MINIATURE. WILLIAM was holding in his hand 'T was drawn by some enchanter's wand- And was delighted and amazed To view the artist's skill. "This picture is thyself, sweet Jane,— "T is drawn to nature true; I've kiss'd it o'er and o'er again, “And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?” Why-no, my love," said he ; "Then, William, it is very clear It's not at all like me." WHAT CAN IT MEAN? I'm much too young to marry, For I am only seventeen; Why think I then of Harry? What can it mean-what can it mean? Whenever Harry meets me, Beside the brook, or on the green, How tenderly he greets me! What can it mean-what can it mean? Whene'er my name he utters, A blush upon my cheek is seen, And then my heart so flutters What can it mean-what can it mean? And when he mentions Cupid, Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen," I sigh and look so stupid! What can it mean-what can it mean? Oh, mercy! what can ail me? I'm growing pale and very lean; What can it mean-what can it mean? I'M NOT IN LOVE!-oh smother Such a thought at seventeen: I'll go and ask my mother What it can mean-what it can mean. G. WALLINGFORD CLARKE Is, we believe, a native of Kentucky. He has lately published a volume with the title of The Dreams of Pindus. THE BURIED MAID. AND they have laid thee in thy narrow cell, So be it, what the Almighty dooms is well, But who that saw thine eyes' bright glances play, Thy cheek's fine flush, that mock'd the blooms of May, So late-could dream of death's dissolving spell? To rapture love had sung-" the bright eyed hour INSCRIPTION. WHOE'ER thou art, to whom this secret shade And mocks their incense.-Rouse thee from thy trance; To love's pure altar. Does ambition urge Thy steps to tempt her dangerous paths?-Beware! Think how the storm can rage:-yet the rough blast With all its hundred arms that waved to heaven, While the hush'd stream, fed from its placid fount, Has led thy steps to her own hallow'd mount, O'erflows within-or filthy avarice Disturbs thy dreams,-thou, curst of heaven, shalt find Peace but a sound-and happiness a shade! |