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And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,

And deeper grew the difting snow:

Her limbs were chill'd, her strength-was gone: "Oh, God!" she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child!"

She stripd'd her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,

And round the child-she wrapp'd the vest,
And smiled-to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss-one tear she shed,
And sunk-upon her snowy bed.

At dawn-a traveller passed by,
And saw her 'neath a snowy vail;
The frost of death-was in her eye,
Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale;
He moved the robe from off the child,
The babe look'd up-and sweetly smiled!

ΤΟ ROSABELLE.
(PHILIP LAWRENCE.)

Ah! can I now in words impart,
What hopes and fears my mind assail,
The tortures of a wounded heart,
No tongue can tell the tender tale;
I think of her who first did gain
My love; its fondness none can tell;
'Tis you alone can ease my pain,
My sweet, my lovely Rosabelle.

My waking thought, my nightly dream,
With thy loved image will not part;
And when alone, 'tis ofttimes seen
In the recesses of my heart.
Love dwells in thy soul-beaming eyes,
Pure as it came from heaven above;
I only breathe impassioned sighs,
While gazing on those orbs of love.

And now, dear girl, if yet ungiven,
A precious gift to me impart,
A gift I'll value next to heaven,

The tribute of thy pure warm heart.
An angel's charms in thee appear,
Thy smiles can every care dispel;
To me thou art surpassing dear,
My sweet, my lovely Rosabelle.

SOFTLY MURMUR.

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.)

Softly murmur, gentle breezes,
Waft my thoughts to her I love,
Lightly lift her flowing ringlets,
O'er her tender bosom rove:
Tell her that her image ever

In my breast has made its home,
That my heart will never waver,
But will beat for her alone.

Softly murmur, gentle waters,
Flowing down the mossy glade;
Bringing perfume to the flowers;
Giving lightness to the shade:
Bringing fragrance to the forest,
In the pleasant hours of e'en;
To the fields a robe of beauty,
To the leaves a brighter green.

Softly murmur, gentle voices,
Soothing care and healing woe,
Bringing to the chasten'd spirit
Hopes, forgotten long ago.
Bringing comfort to the dying;
To the weary, giving rest;
Like the whispering of angels,

In the mansions of the blest.

THE PATRIOT'S SONG.

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.)

When vile Secession rears its dastard form,
Tramples on peace and then invokes the storm,
Rise, fellow-men, and with indignant brow,
Unfurl your standard and return its blow.
Strike for your noble land!

Avenge your country's wrongs!

Come from the hills where Freedom sits enthroned.
Come from the plains where Liberty has roamed,
Come from the sea, the river, and the land,
And join your brothers in the "Patriot's Band."
Strike for your noble land!

Avenge your country's wrongs!

Strike for the land of beauty and of worth,
Strike for your land, the glory of the earth;
Strike for the land of liberty this day,
And victory shall round your banners play.
Strike for your noble land!

Avenge your country's wrongs!

66
"LITTLE JIM."

The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and

mean,

Yet every thing within that cot was wond'rous neat

and clean;

The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild,

A patient mother watched beside the death-bed of her child

A little worn-out creature-his once bright eyes grown

dim;

It was the collier's wife and child-they called him "Little Jim."

And oh, to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her

cheek,

As she offered up a prayer of thought-she was afraid

to speak,

Lest the night 'waken one she loved far better than her

life,

For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife

With hands uplifted, see! she kneels beside the suf ferer's bed

And prays that he will spare her boy, and take herself instead.

She gets her answer from her child-soft fall these words for him:

"Mother, the angels they do smile, and beckon 'Little Jim.'

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but oh! I am so dry

Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't ye cry."

With gentle, trembling haste she held a tea-cup to his

lips;

He smiled to thank her as he took three little tiny

sips

"Tell father, when he comes home from work, I said good-night to him;

And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor "Little Jim."

She saw that he was dying-the child she loved so dear,

Had uttered the last words that she might ever hope to hear,

The cottage door is opened-the collier's step is heard

The father and the mother meet, but neither spake a word.

He felt that all was over-he knew his child was

dead,

He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the

bed;

His quivering lips give token of the grief he'd fain conceal

And see! his wife has joined him—the stricken couple kneel;

With hearts bowed down with sadness they humbly ask of Him

In heaven once more to meet again their own poor "Little Jim."

HORATIUS.

(MACAULAY.)

"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may;

I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now, who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?"

Then out spake Spurius Lartius,
A Ramnian proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand on thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius,
Of Titian blood was he:

"I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."

"Horatius," quoth the Consul,

"As thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life,
In the brave days of old.

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