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CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

As if, whate'er the spirit's key,
It strengthened in that solemn air.

The heart soon grows to mournful things;
And Italy has not a breeze
But comes on melancholy wings;
And even her majestic trees
Stand ghostlike in the Cæsars' home,
As if their conscious roots were set
In the old graves of giant Rome,

And drew their sap all kingly yet!
And every stone your feet beneath

Is broken from some mighty thought; And sculptures in the dust still breathe

The fire with which their lines were wrought;

And sundered arch, and plundered tomb, Still thunder back the echo, "Rome.'

Yet gayly o'er Egeria's fount

The ivy flings its emerald veil, And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, And light-sprung arches span the dale; And soft, from Caracalla's baths,

The herdsman's song comes down the breeze,

While climb his goats the giddy paths To grass-grown architraves and frieze; And gracefully Albano's hill

Curves into the horizon's line, And sweetly sings that classic rill,

And fairly stands that nameless shrine; And here, O, many a sultry noon

And starry eve, that happy June,
Came Angelo and Melanie!
And earth for us was all in tune,-
For while Love talked with them,
Hope walked apart with me.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there

was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.

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The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand,

And he said, "I nevermore shall see my Take a message, and a token, to some own, my native land; distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;

And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, Bingen on the Rhine.

- fair

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the
bright light used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calin
Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,

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"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine."

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So rest, O weary heart!- but, lo,

The church-spire, glistening up to heaven,

To warn thee where thy thoughts should go
The day thy God hath given!

Lone through the landscape's solemn rest,
The spire its moral points on high.
O soul, at peace within the breast,
Rise, mingling with the sky!
They tell thee, in their dreaming school,

When rich and poor, with juster rule,
Of power from old dominion hurled,

Shall share the altered world.

Alas! since time itself began,

That fable hath but fooled the hour; Each age that ripens power in man But subjects man to power. Yet every day in seven, at least,

One bright republic shall be known;

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Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring-| From the fine acorn the strong forest

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Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.

bloweth;

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

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Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on In finding thee are all things round us

Work,

thy pillow;

thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow!

Work with a stout heart and resolute

will!

Labor is health!-Lo! the husbandman reaping,

How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!

How his strong arm in its stalwart pride

sweeping,

True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.

Labor is wealth, in the sea the pearl groweth ;

Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;

found;

In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices

sound,

And to our eyes the vision is denied.

Open our eyes, that we that world may

see!

Open our ears, that we thy voice may hear,

And in the spirit-land may ever be,
And feel thy presence with us, always

near.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BRIGHT image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou,

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