From the Boston Pearl. s 0 N G..
{"character_count": 1952, "word_count": 382, "ccnet_language_score": [0.9067999720573425], "ccnet_perplexity": [1787.800048828125], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
T'HY anglished bosom heaves no sigh, So well it can it's woes control Yet, gentle angel, how thine eye

 With it's calm sadness racks my soul brought thee from thy fathers home, To wed with want and wretchedness And dost thou to my bosom come,

 And hlm who made thee wretc:ed, bless ! Tn all but love, how poor we are

 And thou vast born and rocked in ease- While forgive me, gentle Star!

 And bless me with one smile of peace. And thou art dying Well, too well see Deaths mark upon thy brow Thine eyes the fatal message tell,

 That must lose thee, even now. o love, reproach me not too hard =. Are now my own stern thoughts to bear That thy peace of mind have marred, And dlmmed the jewel that 1 wear. Come, sing to me as thou didst sing, Ere life had grown all grief and pain. Till wo no more to me shall cling,

 And shall be boy again. Perhaps we may be happier,

 And hours of joy aid gladness see If not-O, death were better far

 Than one reproachful look from thee.

 A NsW FER. 0 THINK not, husband, that my heart Hath ever blamed thee with it's pain. Dearer and closer still thou art,

 Ks happiness and being wane. T Is true l left my fathers home

 l left 1t freely, too--for thee; And thou, in sunshine or ill glo0m,

 Hast been the universe to me. TT IS true that we are poor--too poor. But there is jog in poverty, And l had chosen all before

 How can l murmur, then, at theei IS true that pallid IS my brow;

 Sorrow, t is true, Is in my eye ! is true ttiiiiit ] ain wasting now, But in thy arms t is joy to die. Come, twine thine arms about me, love; lilay my head upon thy breast, And calmness on thy heart shall move, Lulllng it's fountains unto rest. And will sing to thee the song

 by which my virgin heart was won, Hill thou again shalt dwell among

 he joys that now, alas are gone. And when our life shall faint away,

 Like the sad cadence of the strain, Astwin stars at the break of day,

 Together we will calmly wanc. 