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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 !
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 ;
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-
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.
Tire an altamils tomsel,
Rhe sun of May was bright in middle heaven,
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,