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The father lived, and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as if in quest of something –
Something he could not find, he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless- then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search,
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That moldering chest was noticed, and 't was said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

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Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
'T was done as soon as said, but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished-save a wedding ring
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra."
There then she had found a grave!

Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy,
When a spring lock that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down forever!

ROGERS.

THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.

'VE been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er, They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more

And there I, from a shepherd, heard a narrative of fear,
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear;
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous ;
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:

"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;
But, patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

"One cloudless sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done -a shriek of grief and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed w th fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care; But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye,
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry;
And now, with agonizing heart, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power could not avail that innocent to save!

"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free;
At intervals I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed!
Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily ne flew ;
A mote, upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my view;
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight,-
'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot,

When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,

From thence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,
He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

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"I clambered up that rugged cliff, I could not stay away,

I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;
A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred;
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon his head.”

That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by,
Who often stand, and musing gaze, nor go without a sigh.
And as I journeyed the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me whereon the infant lay.

ANONYMOUS

THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and scre
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead,
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread;
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood top calls the crow, through. all the gloomy da

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung

and stood

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In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood!
Alas! they all are in their graves the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours:
The rain is falling where they lie but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones ag.in.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose, and the orchis died, amid the summer's glow;
But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on

men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now when comes the calm mild day. -as still such days will

come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are

still,

And twinkle in the hazy light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leat,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

BRYANT

THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside ;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,

Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;

In every clime, the magnet of his soul,

Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole :
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride,
While, in his softened looks, benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found ?
Art thou a man? a patriot? look around;
Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

MONTGOMERY

THE HURRICANE.

THE golden blaze

Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze,
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray -
A glare that is neither night nor day,

A beam that touches, with hues of death,
The clouds above and the earth beneath.
To its covert glides the silent bird,

While the hurricane's distant voice is heard,
Uplifted among the mountains round,
And the forests hear and answer the sound.
He is come! he is come! do ye not behold
His ample robes on the wind unrolled?
Giant of air! we bid thee hail!

How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale!
How his huge and writhing arms are bent,
To clasp the zone of the firmament,
And fold at length in the dark embrace,
From mountain to mountain the visible space!

Darker still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air:
And bark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud!
You may trace its path by the flashes that start
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart.
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below,
And flood the sky with a lurid glow.

What roar is that?'t is the rain that breaks,
In torrents away from the airy lakes,
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,
And shedding a nameless horror round.

Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies,
With the very clouds! - ye are lost to my eyes.
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place

The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
A whirling ocean that fills the wall

Of the crystal heaven, and buries all;
And I, cut off from the world, remain
Alone with the terrible hurricane.

BRYANT

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

CHAINED in the market-place he stood,
A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude

That shrunk to hear his name,
All stern of look and strong of limb,
His dark eye on the ground;

And silently they gazed on him,
As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought ----
He was a captive now;

Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
Was written on his brow:

The scars his dark broad bosom wore

Showed warrior true and brave:

A prince among his tribe before,
He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake → "My brother is a king:

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