OH THINK NOT THAT THE DREAM

IS PAST!

BY JOHN B. L. SOULE.

OH THINK not that the dream is past

Of scenes when fondest hopes were cherished; Though but the shadow now may last Of each bright hope forever perished.

I know that fortune hath decreed

These hearts shall never be united; I know that mine alone must bleed, That mine alone was truly plighted.

Although the strain which now I pour
In plaintive sadness, ne'er may reach thee;
Although this tongue shall never more

Of deathless love essay to teach thee,

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Yet it is well-I would not mar

The new-born pleasures that surround thee, Nor on my lonely harp shall jar

One note of memory to wound thee!

But deem not that this heart is cold,
Though this should be its latest token,
Of love which words have never told,

Of vows which never can be broken.

Where'er my feet are doomed to stray
By hopes allured, or sorrows driven,
I'll turn from other scenes away

To love thee, faithless, but forgiven!

THE WITHERED FLOWERS.

BY EDMUND FLAGG.

I KNEW they would perish!
Those beautiful flowers-
As the hopes that we cherish
In youth's sunny bowers :—
I knew they'd be faded!

Though with fond, gentle care
Their bright leaves were shaded,
Decay still was there.

So all that is brightest

Ever first fades away,

And the joys that leap lightest

The earliest decay.

The heart that was nearest,

The widest will rove,

And the friend that was dearest

The first cease to love.

THE WITHERED

FLOWERS.

147

And the purest, the noblest,

The loveliest-we know

Are ever the surest,

The soonest to go.

The birds that sing sweetest,
The flowers most pure,
In their beauty are fleetest,
In their fate the most sure.

Yet still though thy flowers
Are withered and gone,
They will live like some hours
In memory alone.

In that hallowed shrine only

Sleep things we would cherish, Pure, priceless, loved, lonely, They never can perish.

Then I'll mourn ye no more,
Ye pale leaves that are shed,
Though your brightness is o'er
Your perfume is not fled;
And like thine aroma-

The spirit of flowers

Remembrance will hover

O'er the grave of past hours.

THE DEMON OF THE SEA.

BY ELIJAH KELLOGG, JR.

АH! tell me not of your shady dells
Where the lilies gleam and the fountain wells,
Where the reaper rests when his task is o'er,
And the lake-wave sobs on the verdant shore,
And the rustic maid with a heart all free,
Hies to the well-known trysting-tree ;
For I'm the God of the rolling sea,

And the charms of earth are nought to me.
O'er the thundering chime of the breaking surge
On the lightning's wing my course I urge,
On thrones of foam right joyous ride
'Mid the sullen dash of the angry tide.

I hear ye tell of music's power,

The rapture of a sigh,

When beauty in her wizard bower

Unveils her languid eye.

Ye never knew the infernal fire,