And some have thought the martyr's crown,

So full of glories bright,

Had joys, from its fire circlet won,

To thrill with wild delight;

Such will receive,

such crown will give

A joy like that above,

Yet nothing sure than bliss more pure
That burns in hearts we love.

Others have thought the poet's fire
Unearthly pleasure has,

And light there is around his lyre
That doth in heaven blaze;

He strikes the string, his numbers ring,
Rapt is his soul above;

And yet his bliss is not like this

Found in the hearts we love.

When morning comes we go

Upon the vernal earth,

abroad

And feel the very breath of God

Is in its shouting mirth;

The heart 's not still, with wildest thrill

Its living pulses move,

Yet comes there not with all this thought
The bliss of hearts we love.

The warrior dares the angry path
Where death-doomed surges swell;
The madness of its awful wrath

He seeks, it pleases well;

Yet go to him when stars burn dim
O'er those life late did move;

Ask if his pleasure has that large measure
Poured from the hearts we love.

Then give me one in which my own

Shall ever centred be,

And I will spurn the monarch's throne, -
The richer man than he;

There's not o'er all this earthly ball
One joy like this to move, -

A happy heart that dwells apart,

And lives in our own love.

W. T. BACON.

Memories of Youth.

As the lengthened train of years shall roll,

And forever pass away,

The glad thoughts of youth shall hold my soul In their everlasting sway.

Though my eyes should lose their sense of sight,
And my limbs should lose their power,
Yet I'd think of airy visions bright,

Which were dreamed in youth's glad hour.

Should the years of manhood o'er me fling
A dark veil of toil and care,

Yet around my youth my thoughts would cling,
And most fondly cluster there.

When away from this, my native soil,

I shall roam in distant lands,

Then around my soul youth's ties shall coil,— Those most pure and sacred bands.

When the forms of grim disease and pain
Shall distract my weakened powers,

My exhausted spirit then will fain

Once recur to youthful hours.

J. R. DODGE.

Congenial Spirits.

Oh! in all the varied scenes of life,

Is there a joy so sweet,

As when, amid its busy strife,

Then start to meet the master hand

That calls them forth to light.

When turning o'er some gifted page,
How fondly do we pause,
That dear companion to engage

In answering applause.

And when we list to music's sigh,

How sweet at every tone,

To read within another's eyes

The raptures of our own!

To share together waking dreams,
Apart from sordid men,

Or speak on high and lofty themes,
Beyond the worldling's ken.