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NEW ENGLAND'S MOUNTAIN CHILD.

WHERE foams the fall, a tameless storm,
Through Nature's wild and rich arcade,
Which forest trees, entwining, form,
There trips the mountain maid.

She binds not her luxuriant hair
With dazzling gem or costly plume,
But gayly wreathes a rosebud there,
To match her maiden bloom.

She clasps no golden zone of pride
Her fair and simple robe around;
By flowing ribbon, lightly tied,
Its graceful folds are bound.

And thus attired,-a sportive thing,
Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild,
Proud Fashion, match me, in your ring,
New England's mountain child!

She scorns to sell her rich, warm heart
For paltry gold, or haughty rank;
But gives her love, untaught by art,
Confiding, free, and frank.

And, once bestowed, no fortune-change
That high and generous faith can alter ;
Through grief and pain

--

She will not fly or falter.

too pure to range

Her foot will bound as light and free
In lowly hut, as palace-hall;

Her sunny smile as warm will be,—
For Love to her is all.

Hast seen where in our woodland gloom
The rich magnolia proudly smiled?
So brightly doth she bud and bloom,
New England's mountain child.

Frances S. Osgood.

LUCY HOOPER, 1816-1841.

AND thou art gone, sweet daughter of the lyre! Whose strains we hoped to hear thee waken

long;

Gone, as the stars in morning's light expire,-
Gone, like the rapture of a passing song;
Gone from a circle who thy gifts have cherished
With genial fondness and devoted care,
Whose dearest hopes, with thee, have sadly per-
ished,

And now can find no solace but in prayer ;
Prayer to be like thee, in so meekly bearing,
Both joy and sorrow from thy Maker's hand;
Prayer to put on the white robes thou art wear-

ing,

And join thy anthem in the better land.

H. T. Tuckerman.

THE MAID'S LAMENT.

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone,

I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke ; yet, could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him; I now would give
My love, could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and, when he found
"Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!
I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns;
And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart; for years
Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,
"These may she never share! "

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name, and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,

And O! pray, too, for me!

Walter Savage Landor.

THE DREAM OF LOVE.

I'VE had the heart-ache many times
At the mere mention of a name
I've never woven in my rhymes,
Though from it inspiration came.
It is in truth a holy thing,

Life-cherished from the world apart A dove that never tries its wing,

But broods and nestles in the heart.

That name of melody recalls

Her gentle look and winning ways,
Whose portrait hangs on Memory's walls,
In the fond light of other days.
In the dream-land of Poetry,
Reclining in its leafy bowers,

Her bright eyes in the stars I see,
And her sweet semblance in the flowers.

Her artless dalliance and grace-
The joy that lighted up her brow-
The sweet expression of her face-
Her form- it stands before me now!
And I can fancy that I hear

The woodland songs she used to sing,
Which stole to my attending ear,
Like the first harbingers of spring.

The beauty of the earth was hers,
And hers the purity of heaven!
Alone, of all her worshippers,

To me her maiden vows were given.
They little know the human heart,

Who think such love with time expires; Once kindled, it will ne'er depart,

But burn through life with all its fires.

We parted-doomed no more to meet-
The blow fell with a stunning power-
And yet my pulse will strangely beat
At the remembrance of that hour!
But time and change their healing brought,
And years have passed in seeming glee;
But still alone of her I've thought
Who's now a memory to me.

There may be many who will deem
This strain a wayward, youthful folly,
To be derided as a dream

Born of the poet's melancholy.
The wealth of worlds, if it were mine,
With all that follows in its train,

I would with gratitude resign,
To dream that dream of love again.
George P. Morris.

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