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Oh, pleasant is the voice of youth,
For it tells of the heart's confiding truth
And keeps that free and fearless tone,
That ne'er to our after years is known:
I hear it rise in each hamlet-cot,

O'er evening prayer and page;

But woe for the hearth that heareth nought
But the dreary tones of age.

The glow is gone from our winter blaze,
And the light hath pass'd from our summer days;
And our dwelling hath no household now

But the sad of heart and the gray of brow.
For the young lies low 'neath the church-yard tree,
Where the grass grows green and wild;
And thy mother's heart is sad for thee,-
My lost, mine only child!

But a wakening music seems to flow
On me from the years of long ago,

As thy babe's first words come sweet and clear
Like a voice from thy childhood to mine ear
And her smile beams back on my soul again,
Thy beauty's early morn,

Ere thine eye grew dim with tears or pain,
Or thy lovely locks were shorn.

Alas! for the widow'd eyes that trace
Their early-lost in that orphan face;

What after-light will his memory mark,

Like the dove that in spring-time sought her ark

For long in that far and better land

Were her spirit's treasures laid;

And she might not stay from its golden strand

For the love of hearts that fade.

But woe for her on whose path may shine

The light of no mother's love but mine;

Oh, well if that lonely path lead on

To the land where her mother's steps have gone

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-
Shall we hope to find it now?

It may be found, like the aloe's bloom

In the depth of western woods,
To which a hundred springs may come,
Yet wake not its starry buds;

But if, through the mists of wintry skies,
It shine on life's weary ways—

What star in the summer heavens will rise
Like that friend of our darker days?

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 rise
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 us,
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!

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 hairAnd, 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

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