For they keep a record of those, the true hearted, Who fell with the cause they had vowed to maintain; They show us bright shadows of glory departed, Of love that grew cold, and the hope that was vain. The page may be lost and the pen long forsaken, And weeds may grow wild o’er the brave heart and hand; But ye are still left when all else hath been taken, Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of our land. Songs of our land, ye have followed the stranger, With power over ocean and desert afar, Ye have gone with our wanderers through distance and danger, And gladdened their path like a home-guiding star. With the breath of our mountains in summers long vanished, And visions that passed like a wave from the sand, With hope for their country and joy from her banished, Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our land. The spring time may come with the song of her glory, To bid the green heart of the forest rejoice, But the pine of the mountain, though blasted and hoary, And the rock in the desert, can send forth a voice. It is thus in their triumph for deep desolations, While ocean waves roll or the mountains shall stand, Still hearts that are bravest and best of the nations, Shall glory and live in the songs of their land. F. B. PERIODICAL LITERATURE. THE POOR AUTHOR.[1] How many a time do we take up the page of news, or the sheet of literary novelty, without reflecting upon the nameless sources whence their contents have been derived; and yet what a fruitful field do they afford for our deepest contemplation, and our holiest and purest sympathies! There may be there brought together, and to the general eye displayed in undistinguished union, contributions over which the jewelled brow of nobility hath been knitted into the frown of thoughtfulness, and side by side with these, chapters wearily traced out by the tremulous hand of unbefriended genius. Upon the former we do not mean to dwell, but we _would_ wish for a few moments to contemplate the heart-trying condition of the latter.