Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

Most like a mother, who with pleading eye
Dost turn to Him who for the lost did die —
And with thy many children at thy breast,
Invoke His aid, with low and prayerful sigh,
To bless the lowly pillow of their rest,
And shield them, when the tomb no longer guards its guest.

Calm, holy shades! we come to you for health, —
Sickness is with the living – wo and pain —
And dire diseases thronging on, by stealth
From the worn heart its vital flood to drain,
Or smite with sudden shaft the reeling brain,
Till lingering on, with nameless ills distrest,
We find the healer's vaunted armor vain,
The undrawn spear-point in our bleeding breast, —
Fain would we hide with you, and win the boon of rest.

Sorrow is with the living! Youth doth fade —
And Joy unclasp its tendril green, to die —
The mocking tares our harvest-hopes invade,
On wrecking blasts our garnered treasures fly,
Our idols shame the soul's idolatry,
Unkindness gnaws the bosom's secret core,
Long-trusted friendship turns an altered eye
When, helpless, we its sympathies implore —
Oh! take us to your arms, that we may weep no more.

THE HALL OF INDEPENDENCE

BY GEO. W. DEWEY

This is the sacred fane wherein assembled
The fearless champions on the side of Right;
Men, at whose declaration empires trembled,
Moved by the truth's immortal might.

Here stood the patriot band – one union folding
The Eastern, Northern, Southern sage and seer,
Within that living bond which truth upholding,
Proclaims each man his fellow's peer.

Here rose the anthem, which all nations hearing,
In loud response the echoes backward hurled;
Reverberating still the ceaseless cheering,
Our continent repeats it to the world.

This is the hallowed spot where first, unfurling,
Fair Freedom spread her blazing scroll of light;
Here, from oppression's throne the tyrant hurling,
She stood supreme in majesty and might!

THE LAST OF THE BOURBONS

A FRENCH PATRIOTIC SONG,

WRITTEN BY ALEXANDRE PANTOLÉON,

THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND DEDICATED TO THE NATIONAL GUARD OF FRANCE, BY

J. C. N. G

II

Oh thou spirit of lightning
That movest the French
From the hands of the tyrant,
The sceptre to wrench.
Thou no more wilt be cheated
But keep under arms
Till the sway thou upholdest
Is free from alarms!Hurrah! hurrah! &c.

II

J'entends gronder la foudre
Des braves Français
Ils ont réduit en poudre
Le siége des forfaits.
Leurs éclairs épouvantent
Les rois étrangers
Dont les glaives tourmentent
Des coeurs opprimés.Vive, vive, &c.

III

Tis too late for an Infant
To govern a land
Which a tyrant long practiced
Has failed to command.
For the men of fair Gallia
At home will be free,
And extend independence
To lands o'er the sea!Hurrah! hurrah! &c.

III

Désormais soyez sages
Restez tous armés
Protégeant vos suffrages
Et vos droits sacrés.