Around this ancient festal board

Glad spirits met of yore,

But their merry strains are hushed in death-
Their laugh will ring no more:
Under the yew trees, mossed and green,

May their quiet graves be found,
But in soul they hover nigh unseen
While tale and jest go round.

Then fill, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained-
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of Age is stained.

IF THAT BRIGHT FAITH.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

Ir that bright faith, whose holy beam
The future's darkness turns to day,
Be but delusion's feverish dream,

Returning reason sweeps away-
Oh, who could nerve against despair?
Oh, who survive the loss of bliss?
And, slave-like, still his burden bear,
And toil on through a world like this?

Brow-furrowing care, heart-breaking grief,
The bitter tears that anguish showers-
Oh, where from these is found relief-
Oh, where, if that dark creed be ours?
Better at once to end our pain,

In the hushed grave our sorrows cast,
Than drag along life's galling chain,
And have no goal to reach at last.

But if that faith which heavenward glows
Sheds in my heart its light sincere,
Then come, oh earth! with all thy woes-
I care not for my sorrows here.
The soul within me cannot die;

"Twill soon from every pang be free; Though chained by 'mortal' here, on high "Twill dwell in 'immortality.'

MINSTREL, SING THAT SONG AGAIN.

BY C. W. EVEREST.

MINSTREL, Sing that song again,

Plaintive in its solemn flow;
Memory owns its magic strain,

Loved and cherished long ago:

Lo! the past, the mystic past,

Rises through the vista dimJust as twilight's shades are cast At the day's departing hymn!

Minstrel, 'twas an eve like this:
Stars were spangling all the sky:
Every zephyr spoke of bliss

Floating in its fragrance by;
Then, within our moon-lit bower,
One, with voice like music's own,
Sweetly charmed the lingering hour,
To the soft lute's silvery tone!

As the witching cadence fell

Wild within our bower of love, Angel bands might prove the spell, Bending from the courts above! Minstrel, chant once more the air,

Soft as spring's departing breath: She who sang its numbers there

Slumbers as the bride of Death!

Minstrel, chide thou not my tears-
Thou hast waked a mournful theme;
Memory roves the slumbering years,
Like some dear, forgotten dream :
Day will come, with joy and gladness-
Cares once more will fling their blight;
Chide not, then, my spirit's sadness-
Minstrel, let me weep to-night!

THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE.

BY CAROLINE M. SAWYER.

WARRIOR, rest! thy toils are ended-
Life's last fearful strife is o'er;
Clarion-calls, with death-notes blended,
Shall disturb thine ear no more!
Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber-
Peaceful-but how cold and stern!
Thou hast joined that silent number
In the land whence none return!

Warrior, rest! thy banner o'er thee
Hangs in many a drooping fold-
Many a manly cheek before thee
Stained with tear-drops we behold!
Thine was not a hand to falter

When thy sword should leave its sheath;
Thine was not a cheek to alter,
Though thy duty led to death!

Warrior, rest! a dirge is knelling Solemnly from shore to shore : "Tis a nation's tribute, telling

That a patriot is no more!

Thou where Freedom's sons have striven, Firm and bold, didst foremost stand!

Freely was thy life-blood given

For thy home and father-land!

Warrior, rest! our star is vanished

That to victory led the way;
And from our lone hearth is banished
All that cheered Life's weary day!
There thy young bride weeps in sorrow
That no more she hears thy tread-
That the night which knows no morrow
Darkly veils thy laurelled head!

Warrior, rest! we smooth thy pillow
For thy last, long earthly sleep ;-
Oh! beneath yon verdant willow

Storms unheard will o'er the sweep! There, 'tis done!-thy couch awaits thee!Softly down thy head we lay;

Here repose, till God translates thee

From the dust to endless day!

I'LL THINK OF THEE.

BY J. N. M'JILTON.

I'LL think of thee when morn is breaking, Richly o'er the sleeping sea;

When my thoughts, from dreams awaking, Stir the depths of memory.