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I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go,
For the world, at Dest, is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting' low:
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,

To see the young so gay. —N. P. Willis.

MY NATIVE LAND.

There lies my loved, my native land—
A land with every gift replete—

All perfect from its Maker's hand,
An empire's glorious seat!

And far removed from thrones and slaves,

There Freedom's banner proudly waves.

The frigid and the torrid clime,
The temperate and the genial beam;

The vale, the mountain-top sublime,
The arid plain, the swelling stream:

There linked in union's golden chain,

Bear witness to her vast domain.

Her mountains look o'er realms serene,
O'er waving fields and cities free;

And mightiest rivers roll between,
And bear her wealth from sea to sea:

While o'er old Ocean's farthest deep

Her hanner'd navies proudly sweep.

On Plymouth's rock the pilgrim lands,
His comrades few, and faint with toil;

While warring tribes in countless bands
Roam lawless o'er the uncultured soil.

A few brief years have rolled away,

And those dark warriors—where are they 1

And where are those, the heroic few,
That landed on that rocky shore?

Their voice still rings—their spirit too
Still breathes, and will for evermore!

For in their sons still burn those fires

That freedom kindled in their sires.

;Tis something, though it be not fame,
To know we spring from noble race;

To feel no secret blush of shame
For those we love suffuse our face:

Then let us to our sons transmit

A land and name unsullied yet.

To us was left, in deathless trust,
A realm redeemed, a glorious name,

The ashes of the brave and just,
Fair freedom and immortal fame!

And in our hearts the courage dwells

"Which human power with scorn repels.

We've not to weep o'er glory fled;

We've not to brood o'er servile wo;
We call not on the illustrious dead

To shield us from a living foe.
And should our pride be e'er o'erthrown,
'Twill be by native swords alone.

The standard which our sires unfurled,
And which through peril's path they bore,

Now floats o'er half the western world,
And waves on many a distant shore!

And long shall wave, triumphant, free,

O'er dome and tower, o'er land and sea!

For me—whatever be my fate,
Wherever cast—my country still

Shall o'er each thought predominate,

And through each pulse unceasing thrill.

My prayer, with life's last ebbing sand,

Shall be for thee, my native land!

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CHIMBEES'S MISCELLANY.

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