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T. H. BAYLEY.

Hisle of Beauty,

SHADES of evening! close not o'er us!

Leave our lonely bark awhile ! Morn, alas! will not restore us

Yonder dim and distant isle. Still my fancy can discover

Sunny spots where friends may dwell; Darker shadows round us hover

Isle of Beauty, fare-thee-well ! 'Tis the hour when happy faces

Smile around the taper's light; Who will fill our vacant places ?

Who will sing our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us,

Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us,

Breathing fondly, “Fare-thee-well !” When the waves are round me breaking,

As I pace the deck alone, And my eye in vain is seeking

Some green leaf to rest upon, What would I not give to wander

Where my old companions dwell ? Absence makes the heart grow fonder ;

Isle of beauty ! fare-thee-well !

MISS BLAMIRE.

The Soldier's Keturile

He wars for many a month were o'er

Ere I could reach my native shed: My friends ne'er hoped to see me more,

And wept for me as for the dead.

As I drew near, the cottage blazed,

The evening fire was clear and bright, As through the window long I gazed,

And saw each friend with dear delight.

My father in his corner sat,

My mother drew her useful thread; My brothers strove to make them chat,

My sisters baked the household bread.

And Jean oft whispered to a friend,

And still let fall a silent tear; But soon my Jessy's grief will end

She little thinks her Harry's near.

What could I do? If in I went,

Surprise would chill each tender heart; Some story, then, I must invent,

And act the poor maimed soldier's part. I drew a bandage o'er my face,

And crooked up a lying knee ;
And soon I found, in that best place,

Not one dear friend knew aught of me.

I ventured in ;- Tray wagged his tail,

He fawned, and to my mother ran : “Come here !” she cried ; " what can him ail ?”

While my feigned story I began.

I changed my voice to that of age:

" A poor old soldier lodging craves ;" The very name their loves engage,

“A soldier ! aye, the best we have !”

My father then drew in a seat;

“You're welcome,” with a sigh, he said ; My mother fried ber best hung meat,

And curds and cheese the table spread.

“ I had a son,” my father cried,

“ A soldier too—but he is gone.” “ Have you heard from him ?” I replied :

“I left behind me many a one ;

“ And many a message have I brought

To families I cannot find-
Long for John Goodman's have I sought,

To tell them Hal's not far behind.”

“ Oh! does he live ?” my father cried ;

My mother did not stay to speak; My Jessy now I silent eyed,

Who throbbed as if her heart would break.

My mother saw her catching sigh,

And hid her face behind the rock, While tears swam round in every eye,

And not a single word was spoke. “ He lives indeed! this kerchief see,

At parting his dear Jessy gave; Ile sent it far, with love, by me,

To show he still escapes the grave.”

An arrow darting from a bow

Could not more quick the token reach; The patch from off my face I drew,

And gave my voice its well-known speech.

“ My Jessy dear!” I softly said,

She gazed and answered with a sigh; My sisters looked, as half afraid;

My mother fainted quite for joy..

My father danced around his son ;

My brothers shook my hand away; My mother said “her glass might run,

She cared not now how soon the day!”

WM. C. BRYANT.
(An American Poet.)

BORN 1794

Tire an altamils tomsel,

Rhe sun of May was bright in middle heaven,
And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills,
And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.
Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds
Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,
The robin warbled forth his full, clear note
For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,
Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce

cast A shade, gay circles of anemones Danced on their stocks; the shadbush, white with

flowers, Brightened the glens ; the new-leaved butternut And quivering poplar to the roving breeze Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields I saw the pulses of the gentle wind On the young grass. My heart was touched

with joy At so much beauty, flushing every hour Into a fuller beauty ; but my friend,

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