Then think of the friend who once welcome it too-
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return-not a hope may remain

Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain-
But he ne'er will forget the bright vision that threw
Its enchantment around him while lingering with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest topsparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night—

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles;
Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmer'd, "I wish he were here!"
Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy.
Which come in the night time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd;
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
-Thomas Moore.

G

OOD BY, proud world! I'm going home;
Thou are not my friend; I am not thine;
Too long through weary clouds I roam-
A river ark on the ocean brine,

Too long I am tossed like the driven foam;
But now, proud world, I'm going home.

Good by to flattery's fawning face;
To grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart wealth's averted eye;
To supple office, low and high;

To crowded halls, to court and street,
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet,
To those who go, and those who come,
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home.

I go to seek my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone;

A secret lodge in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned,
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,

And evil men have never trod,

A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,

I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet
Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I'

F thou wert by my side, my love,

How fast would evening fall In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray;
When on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when, by Gunga's stream,
My twilight steps I guide;

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,

The lingering noon to cheer,

But miss thy kind, approving eye,

Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still;
On broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates
Nor mild Mulwah detain ;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee!

G

ONE, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever demon strews

Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air,—

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamps dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,—
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice swamp dank and lone,
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their backs with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters;Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
O, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and racked with pain,
To their cheerless homes again,
There no brother's voice shall greet them,
There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From the tree whose shadow lay

On their childhood's place of play,

From the cool spring where they drank,

Rock, and hill and rivulet bank,-
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there,-

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,—
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.— Toiling through the weary day, And at night the spoiler's prey. O! that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrant's power is o'er, And the fetter galls no more!

Gone, gone sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters,Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
By the holy love He beareth,-
By the bruised reed He spareth,—
O! may He to whom alone

All their cruel wrongs are known
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love!
Gone, gone,-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

-John Greenleaf Whittier.

"F

AREWELL! farewell is often heard
From the lips of those who part:

'Tis a whispered tone, -'tis a gentle word, But it springs not from the heart.

It may serve as the lover's closing lay
To be sung 'neath a summer sky;
But give to me the lips that say

The honest words, "Good bye."

"Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear,

In the guise of courtly speech: But when we leave the kind and dear, 'Tis not what the soul would teach. Whene'er we grasp the hands of those We would have forever nigh, The flame of friendship bursts and glows In the warm, frank words, "Good bye."

The mother, sending forth her child

To meet with cares and strife,

Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears
For the loved one's future life.

No cold "adieu," no "farewell" lives
Within her choking sigh,

But the deepest sob of anguish gives,
"God bless thee, boy! Good bye!"

Go, watch the pale and dying one,

When the glance has lost its beam,
When the brow is cold as the marble stone,
And the world a passing dream;
And the latest pressure of the hand,

The look of the closing eye,

Yield what the heart must understand,
A long, a last Good Bye.

I

KNOW the dream is over

I know you can not be

In all the time to come the same

That you have been to me;

The color still is in the cheek

The lustre in the eye,—

But ah! we two have parted hands-
Good-bye!

Not that I love you less,

For oh! my heart is sore,

Not that the lips that breathe your name
Are less fond than of yore;

But the unresting feet of time
Have traveled on so fast!

And soul from soul has grown away
At last.

Divided.

I think I just stood still

For I had found my all

But your rich life swept ever on
Beyond my weak recall ;

And now, although the voice rings sweet,
And clear the dear eyes shine,

I know no part of all their wealth
Is mine.

What bridge can sad Love build

Across this gulf of Change,

Who needs must work with broken hopes And fancies new and strange?

Alas, it is to late,

The light fades down the sky,

The hands slip slowly each from each— Good-bye!

[Sienna, 1860.]

-Barton Grey.

The short sigh rippling on the deep,

When hearts run out of breath and sight
Of men, to God's clear light.

When others named thee,-thought thy brows
Were straight, thy smile was tender,-"Here
He comes between the vineyard rows!"-
I said not "Ay,"-nor waited, dear,
To feel thee step too near.

I left such things to bolder girls,
Olivia or Clotilda. Nay,
When that Clotilda through her curls
Held both thine eyes in hers one day,

I marveled, let me say.