EXTRACT.
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BY HENRY S. HAGERT.
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So die the young, ere yet the bud has burst
Its leafy prison-house—perchance, ’tis best—
The flower may pine and perish with the thirst
For dew and moisture, but the dead will rest,
Heedless of storm and sunshine; on their breast
The modest violet at Spring will bloom,
And speak their noteless epitaph—the west
May blow too rudely in an hour of gloom,
But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb.
It clings to thee! ’Twas a most lovely creed,
That taught within a flower might dwell the soul
Of a lost friend—wronged one, does it not breed
Within thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll,
Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scroll
Be there to tell thy virtues? O! ’Tis sweet
To know that when the dews from heaven have stole
Down to the earth, those penciled lips shall meet,
The cold sod of thy grave and love’s long kiss repeat!
Then gird thy loins with patience—from the crowd
Be thou a willing exile—but if Fate
Hath otherwise decreed it, if the proud
Should sneer upon thee, or the rich and great
Laugh at thy misery, do thou await
The coming of that hour which shall decide
The issue of the game; and then, with state,
Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glide
Away to thy long rest and sleep in regal pride.
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE.
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BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.
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