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TO THE ORGAN.

C. P. W.

Utterer of many thoughts which else were still,

How oft have I

Evoked thy harmony,

The voiceless void in my poor heart to fill.

Sweet solace of my loneliness or grief,

It is to thee

And thy grand minstrelsy

That I resort for pleasure or relief.

Thy diapason tones' deep, distant swell,
Like ocean's roar,

Or songs from sea-shell's core,

Waken fine chords deep hid in fancy's cell.

Oft-times at even, when my mind is fraught
With visions high,

Or some strange fantasy,

Thy glowing tones give utterance to my thought.

Devotion gains from thee a warmer tone,

Thine undersong

Carries the soul along,

Until it seems to reach the Eternal Throne.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

BYRON.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

NEVER DESPAIR.

W. C. RICHARDS.

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HIS motto I give to the young and the old,
More precious by far than a treasure of gold;
"Twill prove to its owner a talisman rare,
More potent than magic-'tis Never Despair!

No, never despair, whatsoe'er be thy lot,
If Fortune's gay sunshine illumine it not;
Mid its gloom, and despite its dark burden of care,
If thou canst not be cheerful, yet, Never Despair!

Oh! what if the sailor a coward should be,

When the tempest comes down, in its wrath on the sea,
And the mad billows leap, like wild beasts from their lair
To make him their prey, if he yield to Despair?

But see him amid the fierce strife of the waves,
When around his frail vessel the storm demon raves;

How he rouses his soul up to do and to dare!
And, while there is life left, will Never Despair!

Thou, too, art a sailor, and Time is the sea,
And life the frail vessel that upholdeth thee;
Fierce storms of misfortune will fall to thy share,
But, like the bold mariner, Never Despair!

Let not the wild tempest thy spirit affright,

Shrink not from the storm, tho' it come in its might; Be watchful, be ready, for shipwreck prepare,

Keep an eye on the life-boat, and Never Despair.

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TO THE EVENING WIND.

W. C. BRYANT.

["The Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication; but this,-we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, either English or American, has there ever appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of Bryant's style-his chaste elegance, both in thought and expression,-ornament enough, but not in profusion or display,-imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarly soothing,-select and melodious language,-harmony in the flow of the stanza,-gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy." - Geo. B. Cheever's Poets of America, p. 265.]

PIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high
their spray,

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

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Nor I alone- -a thousand bosoms round

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound

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