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MY EARLY DAYS.
I WONDER what they have done with the pine,
Where the red-breast used to singWith the maple too where the wandering vine
So wildly used to fing Its loaded arms from bough to boughAnd if they gather the grapes there now. I should like to know if they've killed the bee,
And carried away the hive;
Or left it to still survive,
Like an ample azure vase;
For the sun to see his face ;-
That gave me its ample shade;
By the plough from its branches made.
MY EARLY DAYS.
And shall I go back to my first loved home
To find how all is changed,
From my early self estranged ?
Let memory's charm suffice!
From time and its change to riseTo soar and recover her primal bloom When death with his trophy has stopped at the tomb.
HANNAH F. GOULD.
PEACE BE AROUND THEE.
Peace be around thee, wherever thou rovest;
May life be for thee one summer's day, And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lovest,
Come smiling around thy summer way ; If sorrow e'er this calm should break,
May even thy tears pass off so lightly, Like spring-showers they 'll only make
The smiles that follow shine more brightly. May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all,
And daily dooms some joy to death, O'er thee let years so gently fall,
They shall not crush one flower beneath.
This world along its path advances,
THRUSH SING, IN A MORNING WALK.
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content, with light, unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments-bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou, whose bright sun now gilds yon orient
skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The inite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share.
In witching slumbers of the night,
That on thy natal moment smiled;
To crown my lovely mortal child. With olive-branch I bound thy head, Hearts-ease along thy path I shed,
Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind Love's roses, with his myrtle twined,
A.nd dew'd by sympathetic tears.' Such was the wild but precious boon Which Fancy, at her magic noon,
Bade me to Nona's image pay;
How blest around thy steps I'd play.