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Lord of the boundless realm of air,
In thy imperial name,

The hearts of the bold and ardent dare
The dangerous path of fame.
Beneath the shade of thy golden wings
The Roman legions bore,

From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs,
Their pride to the polar shore.

For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid;
To thee the clarions raised their swell,
And the dying warrior prayed.

Thou wert, through an age of death and fears,
The image of pride and power,

Till the gathered rage of a thousand years
Burst forth in one awful hour.

And then, a deluge of wrath it came,
And the nations shook with dread;

And it swept the earth, till its fields were flame,
And piled with the mingled dead.
Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood,
With the low and crouching slave;
And together lay, in a shroud of blood,
The coward and the brave!

And where was then thy fearless fight?-
"O'er the dark mysterious sea,

To the lands that caught the setting light,
The cradle of Liberty.

There, on the silent and lonely shore,

For ages, I watched alone,

And the world, in its darkness, asked no more, Where the glorious bird had flown.

"But then came a bold and hardy few, And they breasted the unknown wave;

I caught afar the wandering crew,

And I knew they were high and brave.

I wheeled around the welcome bark,
As it sought the desolate shore;
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,
My quivering pinions bore.

"And now, that bold and hardy few
Are a nation wide and strong,

And danger and doubt I have led them through,
And they worship me in song;

And over their bright and glancing arms,

On field, and lake, and sea,

With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms,
I guide them to victory!"

Atlantic Souvenir.

THE LOST STAR.

A light is gone from yonder sky,
A star has left its sphere;
The beautiful-and do they die
In yon bright world as here?
Will that star leave a lonely place,
A darkness on the night-

No;

few will miss its lovely face,

And none think heaven less bright!

What wert thou star of?—vanished one!

What mystery was thine?

Thy beauty from the east is gone:

What was thy sway and sign?

Wert thou the star of opening youth?—

And is it then for thee,

Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth,
So early cease to be?

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Of hope?—and was it to express
How soon hope sinks in shade;
Or else of human loveliness,

In sign how it will fade?
Or was thy dying like the song,
In music to the last,

An echo flung the winds among,
And then for ever past?

Or didst thou sink, as stars whose light
The fair moon renders vain?-

The rest shine forth the next dark night,
Thou didst not shine again.

Didst thou fade gradual, from the time
The first great curse was hurled,
Till lost in sorrow and in crime,
Star of our early world!

Forgotten and departed star!

A thousand glories shine
Round the blue midnight's regal car,

Who then remembers thine?

Save when some mournful bard like me

Dreams over beauty gone,

And in the fate that waited thee,

Reads what will be his own.

Literary Souvenir.

L. E. L.

THE OLD MAID'S PRAYER TO DIANA.

SINCE thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree,
That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be,
Oh! hear the petition I offer to thee,

For to bear it must be my endeavour;

From the grief of my friendships, all dropping around,
Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found,
From the legacy-hunters that near us abound,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From the scorn of the young, or the flouts of the gay,
From all the trite ridicule tattled away

By the pert ones who know nothing better to say,
(Or a spirit to laugh at them give her);
From repining at fancied neglected desert,
Or vain of a civil speech, bridling alert,
From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From over-solicitous guarding of pelf,
From humour unchecked, that most pestilent elf,
From every unsocial attention to self,

Or ridiculous whim whatsoever;

From the vapourish freaks or methodical airs,
Apt to sprout in a brain that's exempted from cares,
From impertinent meddling in others' affairs,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From the erring attachments of desolate souls,
From the love of spadille and of matadore boles,
Or of lapdogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls,
Be they ne'er so uncommon and clever;

But chief from the love of all loveliness flown,
Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down,
On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From spleen at beholding the young more caressed,
From pettish asperity, tartly expressed,
From scandal, detraction, and every such pest,
From all, thy true servant deliver;

Nor let satisfaction depart from her lot.
Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not;
Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot,
Till fate her slight thread shall dissever!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BY THE REV. T. DALE.

O breathe no more that simple air,—
Though soft and sweet thy wild notes swell,
To me the only tale they tell

Is cold despair!

I heard it once from lips as fair,

I heard it in as sweet a tone,—

Now I am left on earth alone,

And she is where?

How have those well-known sounds renewed
The dreams of earlier, happier hours,
When life -a desert now-was strewed

With fairy flowers!

Then all was bright, and fond, and fair,—
Now flowers are faded, joys are fled,
And heart and hope are with the dead,
For she is where?

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And thou to blame my tears forbear;
For while I list, sweet maid! to thee,
Remembrance whispers, "such was she,"
And she is where?

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