BY THOMAS SLIDELL.
There is a tree, whose boughs are clad With foliage that never dies; Whose fruits perennially thrive, And whose tall top salutes the skies.
There is a flower of loveliest hues, No mildews blast its changeless bloom; It smiles at the rude tempest's wrath, And breathes a still more sweet perfume.
There is a star, whose constant rays Beam brightest in the darkest hour, And cheer the weary pilgrim's heart, Though storms around his pathway lower.
That tree, the Tree of Life is called, That flower blooms on Virtue's stem, That star, whose rays are never veiled, Is the bright Star of Bethlehem.
ODE TO JAMESTOWN.
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Old cradle of an infant world, In which a nestling empire lay, Struggling awhile, ere she unfurl'd, Her gallant wing and soar'd away; All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west, Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest!
What solemn recollections throng, What touching visions rise, As wand'ring these old stones among, I backward turn mine eyes, And see the shadows of the dead flit round, Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.