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SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.                        301

The farmer went back to the field, and the wife,
In a smiling and absent way
Sang snatches of tender little songs,
She'd not sung for many a day.
And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea;
Her bread was light and her butter was sweet,
And as golden as it could be.
"Just think," the children all called in a breath,
"Tom Wood has run off to sea!
He would n't, I know, if he only had
As happy a home as we."
The night came down, and the good wife smiled
To herself as she softly said:
'T is so sweet to labor for those we love,
It's not strange that maids will wed I"

BIRTH-SPOT MEMORIES.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE,
H, how the silent memories of years,
Are stirring in my spirit. I have been
A lone and joyless wanderer. I have roamed
Abroad through other climes, where tropic flowers
Were offering up their incense, and the stars
Swimming like living creatures; I have strayed
Where the softest skies of Italy were hung,
In beautiful transparency, above,
And glory floating, like a lovely dream,
Over the rich landscape ; yet dear fancy still,
'Mid all the ruder glow of brighter realms,
Oft turned to picture the remembered home,
That blest its earliest day-dreams. Must I go
Forth into the world again?  I've proved its joys,
Till joy was turned to bitterness- I've felt
Its sorrows, till I thought my heart would burst
With the fierce rush of tears! The sorrowing babe
Clings to its mother's breast. The bleeding dove
Flies to her native vale, and nestles there,
To die amid the quiet grove, where first
She tried her tender pinion. I could love
Thus to repose, amid these peaceful scenes
To memory dear. Oh, it were passing sweet,
To rest forever on the spot,
Where passed my days of innocence -to dream
Of the pure streams of infant happiness,
Sunk in life's burning sands - to dwell
On visions faded, till my broken heart
Should cease to throb - to purify my soul
With high and holy musings - and to lift
Its aspirations to the central home
Of love, peace, and holiness in Heaven.

OH I WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?
[The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln,
and which he was accustomed occasionally to repeat. Mr. F. B.
Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engaged in painting his picture
at the White House, he was alone one evening with the President in
his room, when he said: "There Is a poem which has been a great
favorite with me for years, which was irst shown to me when a young
man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a news-
paper and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great
deal to know who wrote It, but have never been able to ascertain."
He then repeated the poem, and on a subsequent occasion Mr. Car-
penter wrote It down from Mr. Lincoln's own lips. The poem was
published more than thirty years ago, was then stated to be of Jewish
origin and composition, and we think was credited to "Songs of
Israel."]
H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid ;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure -her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.
The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the ste6p;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude go
That withers away 1
So the multitude co
To repeat every tale

the flowers or

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