THE FORSAKEN ARBOR.

[In Memoriam.]

BY BENJAMIN A. G. FULLER.

INTO my garden in the Summer hours
A little bird with golden plumage flew,
And sported joyously amid the flowers

Which clust'ring there, in fragrant beauty grew. Her soft and gentle notes, so blithe and gay,

Like richest music from the spirit land,

Floated around me all the live long day
And cheered the labors of my head and hand.

Oft did I watch her as on gladsome wing

She fluttered near as if my love to share, And by her happy, buoyant song to bring

Some sweet relief to all my toil and care. I watched her, as when twilight shades drew nigh With folded plumes she sought her downy nest, And safe embowered, drooped her head and eye, And sank in trustful confidence to rest.

Day after day, as morn's first radiant beams
Their pure effulgence o'er creation shed,
This little warbler 'roused me from my dreams,
And trilled her liquid music o'er my bed.
Daily she came, and from my hand she took

With thankfulness her little store of food,

The while I smoothed her plumage; — and her look

Shew forth a sweet return of gratitude.

She won my purest love,

my gentlest care,

Her warblings all my fond affections stirred; She nestled in my breast its warmth to share:

So tenderly I loved my darling bird.

I reared an arbor where her nest was made,
And nursed the beauteous flowers which 'round it grew,
And sought to shield her by the leafy shade
From noontide heat, or evenings chilly dew.

And when the yellow leaves forsook the trees,
And flowers faded from the cheerless earth,
I wrapped her softly from the snowy breeze,
And gently warmed her at the household hearth.
Four times glad Spring recalled to life again

Earth's buried glories, hidden long from sight,
Hailed by my songstress, who, in rapturous strain,
And notes exultant told her new delight.

One morn, ere Summer's latest rose had blown,
With icy breath the hoar-frost filled the air;

I missed my little one's familiar tone,

And sought her sheltered nest; she was not there! Too frail the rude Autumnal blast to meet, Or lift her pinions 'gainst the wintry storm, This first chill warning bade her find retreat

Ere rougher winds should toss her fragile form.

And gently, suddenly she took her flight

To sunnier climes, and skies more mild and fair,
Where softer zephyrs breathe, and frosts ne'er blight,
And fragrant flowers bloom eternal there.
Sweet bird! how desolate thy empty nest!
How sad my garden of thy song bereft!
But brighter fields are by thy presence blest,
And dearest memories unto one are left.

The surge of pale-faced men that come From every distant stand,

To find a refuge and a home

In Freedom's chosen land.

'Twas freedom's land in ages past, Where, subject but to God,

In wilderness and prairie vast,

The untamed Indian trod;

Free as the mountain-stream that glides Meandering to the main,

Free as the mountain-storm that rides

In fury o'er the plain.

'Tis Freedom's still, to those who wear

Its warrant in their skin,

Though all the darkest forms they bear Of slavery within.

'Tis Freedom's still-but not for us,
To whom, by deed from heaven,
With ages of unchallenged use,
Its broad domain was given.

All men, of every name and faith,
As with a right divine,
Find shelter and repose beneath
Our fig-tree and our vine.
But we, the children of the soil,
Our mighty and our brave,
Abandoned to a ruthless spoil,
Here only find a grave.

From post to post still driven back,
From realm to realm pursued,
We trace our slow retiring track

By tears, and graves, and blood;
By wrongs, which to high heaven appeal
With prayer's resistles power,

Wrongs which the pale-faced race shall feel In heaven's avenging hour.

RHYMES,

Recited at the Jubilee Dianer, at Bowdoin College, Sept. 3, 1854,

BY EDWARD P. WESTON.

Well, it was pleasant, as we said before,
To be invited home to dine once more.
But then, we must confess, 'twas rather hard

To find appended to our mother's card,

A postscript running thus, — You'll please to bring
Your welcome with you, just some simple thing
To pass round at the dinner; if so be

There should be lacking aught of jeu d'esprit !

I took my Bolmar down to find the dish;
Alas! 'twas neither fruit, nor fowl nor fish.
A jeu d'esprit! I'm making no pretenses,
'Twas written so by her amanuensis.

A jeu d'esprit ! well really my brothers,

If children were not bound to mind their mothers

With such condition in the note to dine,

The 'esprit (spree) had all been yours, sans help of mine But come I must, for thus my heart inclin'd;

But where alas, the jeu d'esprit to find!

Brought forty miles, 'twould spoil in getting here,
Sure as an uncorked bottle of small beer.

So-wise or foolish - I concluded best

To let the morning and the hour suggest.

Well, when I reached, this morning, College-place,

And caught a glimpse of Alma Mater's face,
There's no belying it, I surely spied