The Philopoena: or, Friendship's offering ; a gift for all seasons . , is neer forgot. While heart hath life or eve a * t)6 Perchance a sisters youthful glee Is sobered by a thought of herBeyond the restless rolling sea, In stranger lands a wanderer. Oh ! father, sister, when the chime Of matin bell is on the ye the pleasant time When child and mother knelt in prayer;And by her sacred memory, When bowing at the Saviours shrine,Oh spare a single prayer for me. As you shall ever share in mine. Kind friends, I would not mar your joy In this, to you, so happy hour;Nor mingle sor
The Philopoena: or, Friendship's offering ; a gift for all seasons . , is neer forgot. While heart hath life or eve a * t)6 Perchance a sisters youthful glee Is sobered by a thought of herBeyond the restless rolling sea, In stranger lands a wanderer. Oh ! father, sister, when the chime Of matin bell is on the ye the pleasant time When child and mother knelt in prayer;And by her sacred memory, When bowing at the Saviours shrine,Oh spare a single prayer for me. As you shall ever share in mine. Kind friends, I would not mar your joy In this, to you, so happy hour;Nor mingle sorrows base alloy Where mirth and happiness have not of me, though sad and lone, Nor let me break your revelry—Think not of me, I am but OTie, And have no claim but sympathy. But why complain 1 The God of all, With whom ray mothers spirit mingle in the cup of gall Some blessing with the wo he gives;And while I pine for earthly home. At roseate dawn or sombre mothers gentle soul will come. And guide my steps to her in heaven New York,. f>7 THE MAMELUKE. BT JOHN D. HOTT. Allah il Allah I away, away ! The proud Gaul is forming in battle array ! Like the stars in the sky are assembled his host;To humble the Moslem shall neer be his boast;Never, no, never, our crescent shall wane,While a Mameluke scours the desert and plain ! Allah il Allah ! away, away ! Our steeds smell the battle,—then why do we stay]Our lances are brightened, our sabres are keen,Our Prophet bids onward—on him will we lean ;Neath the folds of his banner well conquer or die,—From our God and our Prophet we never will fly. They have gone, they have gone, like the storm-spirits breath ;Oer the desert they sweep to the revel of death, 68 Where the pyramids frown on the ages long past;They rush on the foe like the siroccos blast:The floods of the Nile are choked with the slain,And a tribute of blood is rolled on to the main. Its banks are all darkened with many a corse,Invader,
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1850, booksubjectgiftboo, bookyear1854
