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Wild is thy lay, and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on the dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying ?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O’er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green, O’er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather-blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place, O, to abide in the desert with thee!

TO DAFFODILS. — Herrick.*

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You waste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon ;

Stay, stay,
Until the hast'ning day

Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we

Will go with you along!

* Born in 1591.

We have short time to stay, as you ;
We have as short a spring,
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing;

We die,
As your hours do; and dry

Like to the summer's rain ;
Or as the pearls of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

THE HERMIT.- Beattie.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,

And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove; 'T was then, by the cave of the mountain reclined,

A hermit his nightly complaint thus began ; Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resigned;

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

" Ah! why, thus abandoned to darkness and woe,

Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O, cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee to

mourn ; O, soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away,

Full quickly they pass, but they never return !

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“Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,

The moon, half extinct, a dim cresent displays; But lately I marked when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendor again; But man's faded glory no change shall renew ;

Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain !

"'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more ;

I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I'mourn not for you ; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with

dew. Nor yet for the ravage

of winter I mourn ; Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save ; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ?

0, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ?”

’T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind ; My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to

shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. “0, pity, great Father of light !” then I cried, “ Thy creature, who fain would not wander from

thee; Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst


And darkness and doubt are now flying away ;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn ; So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn ;

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See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are

blending, And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.



INTO the Silent Land !
Ah! who shall lead us thither ?
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand
Thither, O, thither,
Into the Silent Land ?

Into the Silent Land !
To you, ye boundless regions
Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions
Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band/
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land !

O Land! O Land !
For all the broken-hearted
The mildest herald by our fate allotted
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand
Into the land of the great departed,
Into the Silent Land !





How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest !
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck the hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell á weeping hermit there !


- Mrs. Henry Coleridge.

DEEM not that our eldest heir
Wins too much of love and care ;
What a parent's heart can spare,

Who can measure truly ?
Early crops were never found
To exhaust that fertile ground,
Still with riches 't will abound,

Ever springing newly.
See in yonder plot of flowers
How the tallest lily towers,
Catching beams and kindly showers

Which the heavens are shedding.
While the younger plants below
Less of sun and breezes know,
Till beyond the shade they grow,

High and richly spreading.

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