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THOSE EVENING BELLS.
THOSE evening bells ! those evening bells !
How many a tale their music tells
Of love and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet. 0, the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill;
O, no; it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,

When the storms that we feel in this cold world shall cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace !

THE MINSTREL BOY.
The minstrel boy to the war is gone;

In the ranks of death you'll find him.
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.
“ Land of song," said the warrior bard,

“Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee."

The minstrel fell; but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under.
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder,
And said, “ No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery;
Thy songs were made for the pure and the free;

They never shall sound in slavery.”

THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

I saw thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,

And waste its bloom away.
Yet still thy features wore that light

Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er looked more truly bright

Than in thy smile of death.

As streams that run o'er golden mines,

Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

Within their gentle tide,
So, veiled beneath the simplest guise,

Thy radiant genius shone,
And that which charmed all other eyes

Seemed worthless in thy own.

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou hadst not left that sphere; Or could we keep the souls we love,

We.ne'er had lost thee here.
Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet

Than to remember thee.

SUNSET IN SYRIA. Now upon Syria's land of roses Softly the light of eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon; Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers, Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

But nought can charm the luckless Peri ;
Her soul is sad; her wings are weary
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great temple,* once his own,
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard Time
Has raised to count his ages by.

* Temple of the Sun at Balbec

HINDA'S APPEAL.
O, ever thus, from childhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower

But 'twas the first to fade away.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die.
Now, too, the joy most like divine

Of all I ever dreamed or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine

O misery ; must I lose that too?

LAMENT OF A PERI FOR HINDA. Farewell - farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ;

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's * green water More

pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Farewell be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow

Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea bird has wept ; With many a shell in whose hollow-wreathed chamber,

We Peris of ocean by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,

And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,

And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

* The Persian Gulf.

XLVII. – - MIKE FINK, THE LAST OF THE BOATMEN.

[This sketch of the last survivor of a race of men now extinct is taken from the Western Souvenir for 1829.]

I EMBARKED a few years since, at Pittsburg, for Cincinnati, on board a steamboat, more with a view of realizing the possibility of a speedy return against the current, than in obedience to the call of either business or pleasure.

When we left, the season was not far advanced in vegetation. But as we proceeded, the change was more rapid than the difference of latitude justified. I had frequently observed this in former voyages ; but it never was so striking as on the present occasion. The old mode of travelling in the sluggish flat-boat seemed to give time for the change of season ; but now a few hours carried us into a different climate. We met Spring, with all her laughing train of flowers and verdure, rapidly advancing from the south. The buckeye, cottonwood, and maple had already assumed, in this region, the rich livery of summer. The thousand varieties of the floral kingdom spread a gay carpet over the luxuriant meadows on each side of the river. The thick woods resounded with the notes of the feathered tribe each striving to outdo his neighbor in noise, if not in melody. We had not yet reached the region of paroquets; but the clear-toned whistle of the cardinal was heard in every bush ; and the cat-bird was endeavoring, with its usual zeal, to rival the powers of the more gifted mocking-bird.

A few hours brought us to one of those stopping points known by the name of “wooding-places.” It was situated immediately above Letart's Falls. The boat, obedient to the wheel of the pilot, made a graceful sweep towards the island above the falls, and rounding to, approached the wood pile. As the boat drew near the shore, the escape steam reverberated through the forest and hills like the chafed bellowing of the caged tiger. The root of a tree, concealed beneath the

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