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70 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
And touch no chords of woe— We need no dirge our troubled hearts to thrill! The sound that toll'd his exit from our shore
Is pealing onward still.
Warm are the tears we shed, And deep the anguish that has brought us low; Our Country mourns for her illustrious dead,
And sits in weeds of woe.
And Freedom's Eagle now— Whose restless flight is irer onward, higher— Pauses above his ashes, cold and low,
And folds his wings of fire.
And hark his plaintive wail, His piercing shriek upon each breeze of air! It echoes far—nor shall it cease to swell
For many a lengthen'd year.
TO MISS S, % G.
Why is it that my thoughts turn back to thee
From this, my distant home ? Why is it that thy memory follows me
Where'er I roam ? I knew thee not in girlhood's buoyant hours,
When happiest thoughts are born; I wander'd not with thee through smiling flowers
In childhood's morn.