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LAND of the pine and cypress, where the shades Of tropic forests that no seasons know

Are wed to heralds from the realms of snow; Where blooms the laurel while the jessamine braids Its golden wreaths, and in dim everglades

Elegiac banners tremble to and fro;

Where dark palmettoes wave, and missletoe Gives waxen verdure when the summer fades; O land, wherein the mocker builds his nest

And chants his oracles, and loud adores, Where silent marshes clasp the curving shores; Thou gracious land, give us the largess blest Of chosen souls who lean on Nature's breast While in their ear her mysteries she pours.


In vernal hedgerows blooms the eglantine
And opening fleecy bolls and ripening maize
Give wealthy glories to the summer days.
O'er wayside bush the fervid passion vine
Its regal spray of mystic crowns doth twine.

Upon a sheltered bank while fancy strays
Through purpling distances we lie and gaze,
Such rare inheritance, O South, is thine.
Below, the river to the ocean runs,

And perfumed air and shimmering splendor lies In feeless bounty 'neath benignant skies. Thus reverent Nature sings her orisons And shows her secrets to the anointed ones Who win to read them with anointed eyes.


A land of old renown on History's page,
Where storied Huguenot and Cavalier
Their missions blended; where without a peer
Gay Chivalry doth boast his golden age;
Where beauteous women and brave men engage
Fond Memory's backward look and listening ear,
Though mingling sorrows start the ruthful tear
For all that marred the Southland heritage.
Yet sings its glory now with lute and lyre.

We bury but the dead. So let it be!

The Past is safe! With chastened gladness we Will bid its virtues still the heart inspire. Only the dross doth yield to furnace fire. What ought to live hath immortality.


A land of nameless graves where heroes sleep
In blue and gray; the sacred dust of those
Above whose mouldering bed the rank weed

And never moistened eyes may come to weep.
The dumb, cold earth doth hide their secrets deep;
Its sealed, unpitying lips will ne'er disclose
This mortal pathos which no mortal knows.
Their God doth know, and he their souls will keep.
The loosened hand-clasp aching hearts still miss,

And thoughts of North and South do vainly turn
Unto these battle-graves and vaguely yearn

For the last loving word, the final kiss.
But Mother Nature's heart most tender is,
And wreaths each resting-place with moss and


Land of the Future! Lift thy forehead high!
As from the chamber lit by taper rays,
With hidden corners where the shadow plays,
One goeth forth beneath the open sky
Of the vast firmament and sends his eye
Through starry spaces with a deep amaze,
So now a boundless vision meets thy gaze
In which the wings of faith unfettered fly.
The Future beckons. None shall say thee nay,
Go forth in large resolve with giant stride,
Nor in the foulds of doubt thy talents hide.
The dawn of Hope triumphant beams to-day,
No gate, no caste, no creed shall bar its way.
God's purposes forever shall abide.


O Morning Land! From dreaming slumbers wake!
High noon approacheth with occasion rare,
For nobler victories now thy strength prepare,
And every hindrance from thy shoulders shake.
The magic sword of truth now boldly take,

More than Excalibur in might, and dare
To wrestle with all wrong, and overbear
Each hindering foe, each chain of error break.
Thy moral manhood prove by noble fight;

Chivalric graces still the world doth need

For peaceful conquests over pride and greed.
Join then the tournament with armour bright,
And win thine honors as a gentle knight;
So shall thou boast a Chivalry indeed.


Peace be within thy borders! May the rude
Trumpet of War no more with blast malign
Disturb thy groves of laurel and of pine,
So verdant now in balmy quietude.

May lofty motive lower aims preclude,

And Bethlehem's echoing song with cadence fine
Inspire thy steadfast soul with love devine
And keep thee safe through fate's vicissitude.
In benison my voice I gladly lend.

May peaceful homes and fireside pleasures be
Thy cherished tokens of felicity.

O kindly land, with trustfulness, as friend
Across thy hills and plains my prayers I send
And give thee here my benedicite.


Thou larger land! Home of us all thou art!
Happy to-day that now the Cavalier
And Huguenot with Puritan draw near,
Hand clasped in hand and heart enlinked with
Forgotten now be every vengeful smart,

And while we hold our native country dear,
May her wide bound proclaim in accents clear
That all mankind doth hold inherent part
In the All-Father's love, and so hath claim

To human brotherhood; that all who fill God's family may share the birthright still. May largest loves add lustre to her fame The while we hush the noise of strife and blame In grateful songs of glory and good will.


Truly the new is older than the old.

It hath but slept awhile, enwrapped in mist; But waking earth the sunlight warm hath kissed, And all the hills are decked in robes of gold. Larger horisons now our eyes behold;

Delusive fogs no more our way resist, The far-off future doth our hopes enlist And lengthening vistas to our view unfold. In vain in narrow bounds is knowledge pent; When God gives light in vain our ways we hide; Our finite wills check not the ocean tide; Unto our wanderings truth can ne'er be bent But her straight bands of love and wisdom blent Our rapt obedient souls will safely guide. MARY H. LEONARD. -For The Magazine of Poetry.



FOR thee was always my awakening thought,
For thee the prayer that soothed me ere I slept,
For thee the smiles that Hope but seldom brought,
For thee the many bitter tears I wept.

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O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.
Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?
Not though my tears should fall, as through a

The salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:
To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?

Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?


Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my love
Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heart
Beats in thy bosom; and the shades depart
From all fair gardens, and from skies above,
When thou art near! For thou art like a dove,
And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou



Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin,

To wake and find the fancies of the brain. Sear'd and confused! We languish in the strain Of some lost music, and we find within, Deep in the heart, the record of sin,

The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.


For it is deadly sin to love too well,

And unappeased, unhonor'd, unbesought,
To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thought
That all must love. E'en those who most rebel.
In Eros' camp have known his master-spell;
And more shall learn that Eros yet has taught.

But I am mad to love. I am not wise.

I am the worst of men to love the best
Of all sweet women! An untimely jest,
A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs,
And unordained on earth, and in the skies,
And undesired in tumult and in rest.


All this is true. I know it. I am he.

I am that man. I am the hated friend Who once received a smile, and sought to mend His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the plea Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me At least the notes that know not to offend.


See! I will strike again the major chord

Of that great song, which, in his early days, Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise, And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword Flashing therein; and thine, O thou adored

And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.

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