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THE

TELL TALE FACE.

31

Those shades that come unbidden

From every passing cloud,
With tales of care deep hidden
'Neath merry looks and proud;
The sudden gleam of pleasure
From brow and eye and lip,
That tells the heart hath treasures
It scarce knows how to keep.

These, these are voices given,
For soul to speak with soul,-
As true to truth and heaven,

As the needle to the pole.

I bow to wit and beauty,

I almost worship grace,But I owe especial duty

To an honest tell-tale face.

TO A SISTER

ABOUT TO EMBARK ON A MISSIONARY ENTERPRISE.

BY B. B. THATCHER.

O SISTER! sister! hath the memory
Of other years no power upon thy soul,
That thus, with tearless eye, thou leavest me-
And an unfaltering voice—to come no more?
Hast thou forgot, friend of my better days,
Hast thou forgot the early, innocent joys

Of our remotest childhood; when our lives

Were linked in one, and our young hearts bloomed

out

Like violet bells upon the self-same stem,

Pouring the dewy odors of life's spring
Into each other's bosom-all the bright
And sorrowless thoughts of a confiding love,
And intermingled vows, and blossoming hopes
Of future good, and infant dreams of bliss,

то A SISTER.

Budding and breathing sunnily about them,
As crimson-spotted cups, in spring time, hang
On all the delicate fibres of the vine?

And where, O, where are the unnumbered vows We made, my sister, at the twilight fall, A thousand times, and the still starry hours Of the dew-glistening eve-in many a walk By the green borders of our native stream, And in the chequered shade of these old oaksThe moonlight silvering o'er each mossy trunk, And every bough, as an Eolian harp, Full of the solemn chant of the low breeze ? Thou hast forgotten this-and standest here, Thy hand in mine, and hearest, even now, The rustling wood, the stir of falling leaves, And-hark !—the far off murmur of the brook !

Nay, do not weep, my sister!-do not speakNow know I, by the tone, and by the eye Of tenderness, with many tears bedimmed, Thou hast remembered all. Thou measurest well The work that is before thee, and the joys That are behind. Now, be the past forgotThe youthful love, the hearth-light and the home, Song, dance, and story, and the vows--the vows That we change not, and part not unto death

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Yea, all the spirits of departed bliss,

That even now, like spirits of the dead,

Seen dimly in the living mourner's dreams,
And trilling, ever and anon, the notes

Long loved of old-O, hear them, heed them not.
Press on! for, like the fairies of the tale,
That mocked, unseen, the tempted traveler,

With

power alone o'er those who gave them ear, They would but turn thee from thy high resolve. Then look not back! O, triumph in the strength Of an exalted purpose! Eagle-like,

Press sunward on. Thou shalt not be alone.
Have but an eye on God, as surely God

Will have an eye on thee-press on! press on!

THE SKATER'S SONG.

BY EPHRAIM PEABODY.

AWAY! away !-our fires stream bright

Along the frozen river,

And their arrowy sparkles of brilliant light
On the forest branches quiver.

Away, away, for the stars are forth,

And on the pure snows of the valley, In a giddy trance the moonbeams danceCome let us our comrades rally.

Away, away, o'er the sheeted ice,

Away, away, we go ;

On our steel bound feet we move as fleet

As deer o'er the Lapland snow.

What though the sharp north winds are out

The skater heeds them not;

Midst the laugh and the shout of the joyous rout Gray winter is forgot.

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