Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXII No. 4, April 1848

Come dark'ning our sky.
Then seek not to smother
Kind feelings in thee,
And scorn not thy brother,
Though poor he may be!

Go, cheer those who languish
Their dead hopes among.
In whose hearts stern anguish
The harp hath unstrung!
They'll soon in another
Bright land roam with thee,
So scorn not thy brother,
Though poor he may be!

BEN BOLT

THE WORDS AND MELODY BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH

ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE, AND CORDIALLY DEDICATED TO

CHARLES BENJAMIN BOLT, ESQ

COPYRIGHTED BY GEORGE WILLIG, NO. 171 CHESNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA

Andante con espressione

Don't you re-mem-ber sweet Al-ice, Ben Bolt —
Sweet Al-ice whose hair was so brown —
Who wept with de-light when you gave her a smile,
And trem-bled with fear at your frown?
In the old church yard in the val-ley, Ben Bolt,
In a cor-ner ob-scure and a-lone,
They have fit-ted a slab of the gran-ite so gray;
And Al-ice lies un-der the stone.

II

Under the Hickory tree, Ben Bolt,
Which stood at the foot of the hill,
Together we've lain in the noonday shade,
And listened to Appleton's mill.
The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
The rafters have tumbled in,
And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze,
Has followed the olden din.

III

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the door step stood?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,
The tree you would seek in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest waved,
Grow grass and the golden grain.

IV

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,
And the shaded nook in the running brook,
Where the children went to swim?
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,
And of all the boys that were school-mates then,
There are only you and I.

V

There is change in the things that I loved, Ben Bolt,
They have changed from the old to the new;
But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.
Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends, yet I hail
Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth —
Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.

THE SPIRIT OF SONG.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY

Eternal Fame! thy great rewards,
Throughout all time, shall be
The right of those old master-bards
Of Greece and Italy;
And of fair Albion's favored isle,
Where Poesy's celestial smile
Hath shone for ages, gilding bright
Her rocky cliffs, and ancient towers,
And cheering this new world of ours
With a reflected light.

Yet, though there be no path untrod
By that immortal race —
Who walked with Nature, as with God,
And saw her, face to face —
No living truth by them unsung —