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GEORGE P. MORRIS.

1802-1864.

Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now.

Woodman, spare that Tree.

A song for our banner? The watchword recall

Which gave the Republic her station : "United we stand divided we fall!"

It made and preserves us a nation!
The union of lakes - the union of lands-

The union of States none can sever

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Her suffering ended with the day,

Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away,

In statue-like repose.

A Death-Bed.

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through Glory's morning gate,

And walked in Paradise.

Ibid.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language.

Thanatopsis.

Go forth under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings.

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all

Ibid.

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So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and
soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

The stormy March has come at last,

Ibid.

With wind and clouds and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.

March.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame. Autumn Woods.

The groves were God's first temples.

Forest Hymn.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of

the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.

The Death of the Flowers.

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the

stream no more.

Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth that soonest pass away.

The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Ibid.

A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson. Truth crushed to earth shall rise again : The eternal years of God are hers ; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

The Battle-field.

HENRY TAYLOR.

The world knows nothing of its greatest men. Philip Van Artevelde. Parti. Act i. Sc. 5.

He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that. T is an ill cure

For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out, There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, Nor aught that dignifies humanity.

We figure to ourselves

Ibid.

The thing we like, and then we build it up
As chance will have it, on the rock or sand:
For thought is tired of wandering o'er the world,
And homebound Fancy runs her bark ashore.

Such souls,

Whose sudden visitations daze the world,

Ibid.

Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away

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PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;1

In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most

lives

Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

Festus.

Life's but a means unto an end, that end, Beginning, mean, and end to all things - God.

Ibid.

Poets are all who love, who feel great truths, And tell them: and the truth of truths is love.

Ibid.

LYDIA MARIA CHILD.

England may as well dam up the waters of the Nile with bulrushes as to fetter the step of Freedom, more proud and firm, in this youthful land, than where she treads the sequestered glens of Scotland, or couches herself among the magnificent mountains of Switzerland.

Supposititious Speech of James Otis. From The
Rebels, Ch. iv.

1 A life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line, by deeds, not years. Sheridan, Pizarro, Activ.

Sc. 1.

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