PRESENTED BY J. G. OSBOURN, NO. 112 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILAD’A [Illustration: musical score] When eyes are beaming, What never tongue might tell, When tears are streaming From their crystal cell, When hands are link’d that [Illustration: musical score] dread to part, And heart is met by throbbing heart, Oh! bitter, bitter is the smart Of them that bid farewell! farewell! Second Verse. When hope is chidden That fain of bliss would tell, And love forbidden In the heart to dwell; When fetter’d by a viewless chain, We turn and gaze, and turn again, Oh! death were mercy to the pain, Of them that bid farewell! * * * * * THE MARINER RETURNED. BY REV. EDWARD C. JONES. Come back—come back with your sun-lit eyes— Oh, sing me your olden melodies— I have piled the oak on the ingle wide. And bright is the hall of my boyhood’s pride; I long to gaze on the household throng, With the blended laugh and the fireside song, I long to print on my mother’s cheek The kiss, whose feeling no tongue may speak, I long for a clasp of my father’s hand, And the welcome strain of that sister band, And the love-lit glance of my brother’s eye, Would waken my soul to ecstasy. I have sped me back from the India grove, With the shells and birds that my kindred love; I have brought the gems for my maiden’s hair, To shine like the silver starlets there, The pearl from the sea-cave’s calm retreat, I have borne it home, with a footstep fleet, And the rich-dyed plume of the songster gay, I have brought as a radiant prize away. ’Tis true my cheek has a dusky shade, For the southern gale with my locks has played, ’Tis true the seasons that sped away Have left the marks of the tell-tale gray, And the plough of time, with a furrow now, Has come in its turn to my sunburnt brow, But oh! in my heart unchanged their lies A throng of reviving memories, And one touch of love shall awake once more Each vision bright of the days of yore. Oh, lone one, come from the far green sea, That household band cannot come to thee, For she with the calm and pensive eye, Who cradled thy head in infancy, And he whose bosom would bound with joy, As he joined in laugh with his first-born boy, And they who watched with a sister’s pride The scion that grew by their parents’ side, And the brother, too, who with joy and grace Would part the ringlets from off thy face, They have gone in turn in a shadowy band; Oh, yes, they have flown to the better land, They have traced their names on the slab of white: Go read the line, if it dim thy sight, And standing there, with their dust beneath, And the eye of faith on their seraph-wreath, Oh vow, in the strength of God’s blessed Son, To win the crown that your kindred won,