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24 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
One at my feet lies trembling here,
Just fallen from yon leafy bough;
But, from the many myriads there,
Say, wouldst thou miss the lost one now ? Thus we shall pass life's fitful scene; And who shall know that we have been ?
■ May not the mind its impress give To something that shall not decay? May we not bid some thought survive Long after we have pass'd away ?
Yea, e'en the rustling sound that pass'd
Linger'd awhile upon the blast.
The soul, with all its lofty powers, Flies like the verdure of the leaf, And, like the texture of the flowers, Its garb is woven frail and brief; Yet it transcends, in destiny, The loftiest star that burns on high!
THE BETTER LAND.
Our earth is bright when hope and spring Their radiance o'er its bosom throw:
The spirit of beauty on the wing Amid its landscapes seems to glow!
But there's a land more purely bright,
Which lies beyond our anxious sight,—