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Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in the old arm chair.

'Tis past; 'tis past; but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow; 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And mem'ry flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek: But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm chair.

THE SPICE-TREE.

JOHN STERLING.

The spice-tree lives in the garden green;
Beside it the fountain flows;

And a fair bird sits the boughs between,
And sings his melodious woes.

No greener garden e'er was known

Within the bounds of an earthly king;

No lovelier skies have ever shone

Than those that illumine its constant spring.

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'Tis past; 'tis past; but I gaze on it now

With quivering breath and throbbing brow.-Page 18.

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That coil-bound stem has branches three;
On each a thousand blossoms grow;
And, old as aught of time can be,

The root stands fast in the rocks below.

In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire
The fount that builds a silvery dome;
And flakes of purple and ruby fire

Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam.

The fair white bird of flaming crest,
And azure wings bedropt with gold,
Ne'er has he known a pause of rest,

But sings the lament that he framed of old:

"O princess bright! how long the night

Since thou art sunk in the waters clear!
How sadly they flow from the depth below,―
How long must I sing and thou wilt not hear?

"The waters play, and the flowers are gay,
And the skies are sunny above;

I would that all could fade and fall,
And I, too, cease to mourn my love.

“O, many a year, so wakeful and drear,

I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee!

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But there comes no breath from the chambers of

death,

While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree."

The skies grow dark, and they glare with red;
The tree shakes off its spicy bloom;

The waves of the fount in a black pool spread;
And in thunder sounds the garden's doom.

Down springs the bird with a long shrill cry,
Into the sable and angry flood;

And the face of the pool, as he falls from high
Curdles in circling stains of blood.

But sudden again upswells the fount;
Higher and higher the waters flow,-
In a glittering diamond arch they mount,
And round it the colors of morning glow.

Finer and finer the watery mound
Softens and melts to a thin-spun veil,
And tones of music circle around,

And bear to the stars the fountain's tale

And swift the eddying rainbow screen
Falls in dew on the grassy floor;
Under the spice-tree the garden's queen
Sits by her lover, who wails no more.

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