I hide with you in the fragrant hay, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, -N. P. WILLIS. MY NATIVE LAND. THERE lies my loved, my native land- And far removed from thrones and slaves, The frigid and the torrid clime, The temperate and the genial beam; Her mountains look o'er realms serene, On Plymouth's rock the pilgrim lands, Roam lawless o'er the uncultured soil. And where are those, the heroic few, That landed on that rocky shore? -ANON. "Tis something, though it be not fame, For those we love suffuse our face: To us was left, in deathless trust, Fair freedom and immortal fame! We've not to weep o'er glory fled; The standard which our sires unfurled, And which through peril's path they bore, For me- -whatever be my fate, Wherever cast-my country still And through each pulse unceasing thrill. |