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SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND.
And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
Songs that were made of yore;
And thou, while stammering I repeat,
Thy country's tongue shalt teach ; 'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet
Than my own native speech :
Upon Tahiti's beach
I knew thy meaning—thou didst praise
My eyes, my locks of jet :
But thine were fairer yet!
And when my sight is met
Come, talk of Europe's maids with me,
Whose neck and cheeks, they tell,
White foam, and crimson shell.
A sight to please thee well :
Come, for the soft, low sunlight calls;
We lose the pleasant hours : 'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,
That seat among the flowers;
A lot so blest as ours-
WILLIAM C. BRYANT.
If Thou wert by my side. I love,
How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove
Listening the nightingale !
of thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
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,
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.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
But when of morn or eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,
Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still ;
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain;
By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sea;
The Soldier's Dream.
UR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.
Stay, stay with us !-rest; thou art weary and worn !
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
Stanzas to Augusta.
The faults which so many could find;
It shrunk not to share it with me,
It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
Because it reminds me of thine ;
As the breasts I believed in with me,
It is that they bear me from thee.
STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain-it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me;
They may crush, but they shall not contemnThey may torture, but shall not subdue me
'Tis of thee that I think—not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake; Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake. Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly; Though watchful, 't was not to defame me,
Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with oneIf my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'T was folly not sooner to shun; And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee, I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.
From the wreck of the past which hath perished
Thus much I at least may recall;—
Deserved to be dearest of all.
In the wild waste there still is a tree,