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GREEN BE THE TURF ABOVE THEE

BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

GREEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth,
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine;

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

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THE TRUMPET.

BY G. W. PATTEN.

FIERCE tempter to the field of death,
Rude arbiter of glee!

What charm, O trumpet! sways thy breath,
That man so doats on thee?
And the trumpet answered on the blast,
With its wild and wildering tone-

I bind the present to the past,

With a magic all my own.

There's a charm that lives for the vine-clad bower,

And one for the sparkling wine,

And one for the lute of a queenly power;

But a stronger spell is mine.

I speak to the ear of restless love,

And his burning eye grows dim,

As he turns away from the trysting grove,
Where the maiden waits for him.

The battle stirreth at my word

Its elements of fear;

Leaps from its sheath the restless sword,

Flashes the potent spear.

The war-drum rolls a wilder call,

And the bristling columns form,

Red streams the death-flag from the wall,

Rattles the leaden storm.

My voice is o'er the sleeping seas,
And on the surging shore,

I sing upon the rustling breeze,
And I speak where tempests roar.
The squadron bark knows not her own,
Till she hears my signal blast,
And the wrecker watcheth for my tone
As he bows by the bending mast.

Well did they heed my daring call,
In the city of the plain,
When rushed the foemen from the wall,
As it crumbled o'er the slain.
But a fearful tone I yet shall wind,
To the ear of earthful trust,
When I tear apart the chains that bind
The sleeper to the dust.

TO A GOLDFINCH.

BY ROSWELL PARK.

BIRD of the gentle wing,

Songster of air,

Home, from thy wandering,

Dost thou repair?

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