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And singing, dancing and flashing along,
Its life grew into a beautiful song;
It woke up the violets early in spring,
And they smiled to hear the brooklet sing.

And they opened their blue eyes wider still When they felt the kiss of the laughing rill; And they could not tell which most to loveThe sky in the brook or the one above.

And some water-lilies, stately and fair,
Look'd down in the brook and trimm'd their hair;
Each smiled and nodded with peculiar grace,
As it gazed and wondered at its own fair face.

But the merry brook went dancing by,
Loving most of all the bright blue sky,

Till one day, when the sun was warm and bright,
A fairy creature of wondrous light

Bent over the stream, all light and love, With eyes still bluer than the sky above, And radiant tresses sprinkled with dew, Like a rose-tinted cloud in the ether blue.

And what do you think? This beautiful sprite Was the spirit of song from the regions of light; And when summer lay on her rose-curtained bed; The brook and the spirit were solemnly wed.

Now, the graceful lilies grew stately and wise, And the beautiful violets drooped their blue eyes, And the sky sometimes looks angry and tried, But the brook still clings to its phantom bride.

BEAUTIFUL REST.

BEAUTIFUL hands, folded to rest,

Folded to sleep on the calm, cold breast;
Never to labor with brain or pen;
Never to labor for loved ones again.

Calm sweet face, so peaceful and fair
In a shining halo of snow-white hair.
Not a shadow rests on the beautiful brow;
All sorrow and care have left it now.

The angels have smoothed the furrows of care,
And left the soft light of their presence there.
Folded to rest, without anguish or pain,
Never to worry or trouble again.

Folded away! safely folded away!
Waiting the light of eternity's day;
Waiting and watching for me and for you,
With nothing at last-nothing to do.

No more to worry with business and care;
No more to labor for loved ones left here;
No more to long for the beautiful rest,
That only is found in the home of the blest.

DOST RECOLLECT IT, JENNIE DEAR?

WHEN Summer, like an elfin queen,
With blossom-circled brow,
Sat smiling on the pleasant scene,
So lovely in her sunlit sheen,

But not so fair as thou;
Dost mind it, in the forest green,
Jennie, my heart's own chosen queen,
We plighted first our vow?

Dost recollect it, Jennie dear?
'Twas such a day as this,
When heaven seems to draw so near;
We quite forgot, my Jennie, dear,

That we were in a world like this;
'Twas such a pleasant place, you know,
That all the world did seem aglow,
Trembling, as we, with bliss.

And love has kept our promise green

Through many changing years;
But frosts have sered the woods, I ween,
And Time's soft fingers, though unseen,

Have planted some gray hairs;
But in our hearts, my Jennie, dear,
The roses bloom as fresh and fair,
Though sometimes wet with tears.

MY BROTHER.

A REMINISCENCE,

EIGHTY-FIVE! how strange to see
How time hath flitted by,
Since he and I together played
Beneath a soft blue sky.

Ah! many a league I've traveled since
Those early dewy hours,

When hope was painted on the sky,

And life was wreathed with flowers.

We looked upon the sky and earth,
And all was very fair,
And wondered that so bright a place
Could be the home of care.

The music of the running brook,
We fashioned into song;

And gathered whispers from the winds
To bear its notes along.

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E

EDMUND K. HARRIS.

'DMUND K. HARRIS, brother of Mrs. Mary Ware, was born in Monroe county, Tenn., February 16, 1830. The earliest years of this gifted writer were spent amid his native mountains, breathing Nature's omnipotence in the strength of her hills. Thoughtful, studious, literary, diligent in his research for wisdom, his tastes for books and storied authors were the consummation of a father's hopes, whose mind was a reflection of his own. In 1844, removing with his father's family to Shelby county, Ala., he was placed under the tutelage of an eminent foreign-born English scholar, where he made rapid progress, subsequently assuming control of the Shelby Chronicle. Here his ability and accomplishments were so displayed that in 1857, when one of the editors of the Mobile Tribune was summering in the vicinity, he induced Mr. Harris to return with him to become a member of the editorial staff of the Tribune. Mobile was then prosperous, influential, the flower of Alabama cities, and was indeed to the entire South what Venice was to Mediterranean Europe in the fifteenth century. Mr. Harris died April 16, 1859, when his adopted city was gladdened by the garlands and bloom of a tropic spring. His finely wrought nature was spared the soul-harrowing scenes of the Civil War, and at his death rare tributes were prompted to his memory from the illustrious in the world of letters over the South. B. F. K.

STANZAS.

O LIFE! so dark, so bright, so evanescent,
My heart grows sometimes weary of thy thrall.
Then I would burst these bonds of toil incessant,
Thy sin to flee, thy joy, thy sorrow—all!
Yes, my tired spirit, faint and sorrow-laden,
Would fly away to some sweet isle of rest,
There safe to lie, and, like a low-voiced maiden,
Beguile its woe away on Nature's breast.

In the dim forest I have roved at even,

And, pensive, listened to the birds' sweet lay;
And I have dreamed of a far home in heaven,
Till almost I forgot that I was clay.
Soul of the beautiful, thy spell around me
Would soothe to rest the throbbings of my heart,
But iron fetter's galling chains have bound me,
Whose stubborn links in time will never part.

O Freedom! blessed spirit, grand and holy,
Thou hast no dwelling underneath the sky,
For men are bondsmen, weak, and vile, and lowly,
Born unto suffering, doomed to toil and die.

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In fond forgetfulness of earth, and sin,
And care, in every age have leaped; and thou
Hast felt their warm devotion, Moon, and with
A smile more sweet, more holy than thy wont,
Repaid the love they gave. E'en so, it seems
Thou smilest now.

Through the deep azure, gleam
The countless stars of heaven. Have ye before
E'er looked so beautiful as now, sweet orbs?
Ay, oft! and yet my soul was never thrilled
With so deep a sense of your near presence.

Ye tranquil stars; there is a magic in
Your wreathed charms, that halfway weans me
from

Myself; uplifts my struggling soul from this
Dim life, and purifies, and similates
To essence like yourselves, eternal.

The night is lovely. Far along, where the
Deep shadows of the oak tree lies, the pale
Moonbeams for an instant rest and quiver.
The wind, low whispering in Night's still ear,
Dallies with the umbrageous boughs, soft fans
The trembling leaves of these great trees, and
lifts

Lightly the streamers on yon distant hill.
Here are some lowly flowers, that uplift their
Dewy eyes to mine. Fair flowers, so fragile,
Yet consummate of beauty, well ye do
Personate that sweetest of all human
Graces-Modesty.

Oh! in an hour like this

In a spot like this-beside me one dear
Friend, whose smile, calm as the pencilled star-

light,

Should all reflect my soul's deep love-it were Not pain, methinks, to meet the angel Death; Passing from heavenly calm on earth to thee, Serenity of endless bliss above.

"I STILL LIVE.”

THE DYING WORDS OF WEBstrr.

STATESMAN, yes! tho' cold and lowly,
In the silent tomb,

A living light, intense and holy,
Bursts the gloom.

Bursts the gloom! A Nation, weeping,
Beholds that light,

Like the morning sun-beams creeping
O'er the night.

Still he lives. O, yes, forever
And forever more!

The light of such a life can never
Fade from all Time's shore.

Thoughts immortal, thoughts eternal,

His spirit bore;

These bloom on earth, like flowers vernal,
Bloom evermore.

My Country, in thy darkest hour
Look up, and see

In his words of strength and power,

Hope-Liberty!

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