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The hopes and fears, and vague, uncertain guesses Of what my fate will be.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slights that nature puts upon me here,
Or take the chance of meeting something rougher
Than those which now I bear.

If black proved always jet, and purple never,
If yellow ne'er appeared for promised brown,
My doubts would vanish, and no mental fever
Would weigh my spirits down.

But yet, to see the smiles, and meet the glances
Of ridicule from girlhood's eyes that flash!
It is too bitter-I must take the chances,
And dye-my young moustache.



OUR past is bright and grand

In the purple tints of time;

And the present of our land
Points to glories more sublime.

For our destiny is won;

And 'tis ours to lead the van
Of the nations marching on,
Of the moving hosts of man!
Yes, the Starry Flag alone

Shall wave above the van,
Of the nations sweeping on,

Of the moving hosts of man!

We are sprung from noble sires
As were ever sung in song;
We are bold with Freedom's fires,

We are rich, and wise, and strong.

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To our hearts' quick, proud pulsations,
To our shouts that still increase,
Shall yet lead on the nations,
To their brotherhood of peace!
Yes, Columbia, great and strong,
Shall forever lead the van,
As the nations sweep along,

To fulfil the hopes of man!



[The MSS. of this poem, which appeared. during the first quarter of the present century, was said to have been found in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, in London, near a perfect human skeleton, and to have been sent by the curator to the Morning Chronicle for publication. It excited so much attention, that every effort was made to discover the author, and a responsible party went so far as to offer a reward of fifty guineas for information that would discover its origin. The author preserved his incognito, and, we believe, has never been discovered.]

BEHOLD this ruin! 'Twas a skull

Once of etherial spirit full.

This narrow cell was Life's retreat,

This space was Thought's mysterious seat.
What beauteous visions filled this spot,
What dreams of pleasure long forgot?
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,
Have left one trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye,
But start not at the dismal void-
If social love that eye employed.

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dews of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be forever bright
When stars and sun are sunk in night.

Within this hollow cavern hung

The ready, swift and tuneful tongue;


If Falsehood's honey it disdained,

And when it could not praise, was chained;
If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke ;

This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When Time unvails Eternity!

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WHERE is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his children? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening odors, and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play; there God brews it. And down, low down in the lowest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the

the tall mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash; and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar ; the chorus sweeping the march of God: there he brews it— that beverage of life and health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun; or a white gauze around the midnight moon.

Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail shower; folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world; and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven; all checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction.

Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water; no poison bubbles on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in its depth; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eternal despair; speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it demon's drink, alcohol!



LITTLE Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street ;
The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on her feet.
The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp.
The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth.

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