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(Before the heart took fire and wither'd life) When childhood might pair equally with birds ; But now
.. the birds were grown too proud for us! Alas, the very sun forbids the dew. And I–I had come back to an empty nest Which every bird's too wise for.
THE OLD MILL.
Standeth the quiet mill.
Under the dripping flume--
Many a year
Chanting her solemn strain,
Their tufts of vermeil flowers,
Day by day,
prey, The silent kingfisher sits on high,
Dreaming under the leaves,
Through the trees
Down where the lilies grow;
Dips his blue wings below.
From hidden springs,
Sliding along through the quiet profound;
The trout-haunted brook comes down
Mingling its tune
Where the cattle stand in the dell;
Beating the broken wheel.
In the light of the open day,
Over the dam and the trees,
Gleaming beyond the leaves.
Large and fair
With domes of the summer blue,
And the bright years shining through.
Is this crumbling tottering thing;
of memory over all,
THE COMING IN OF NIGHT.
The following, by an old and almost unknown poet named BROWNE, a Devonshire man, might have adorned the pages of Spenser himself. The ascension of the fogs and mists, and the cessation of all noise, are in a true—nay, a high spirit of grandeur ; and the very delicacy of the conclusion adds to it. The sense of hushing solemnity is drawn to the finest point.
Now great Hyperion left his golden throne,
FAREWELL Life! my senses swim,
Welcome Life! the Spirit strives !
THE LAPSE OF TIME.
By W. C. BRYANT, the American poet. LAMENT who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments ily, I sigh not over vanish'd years,
But watch the years that hasten by. Look how they come! a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark, but rapid days ; Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
The wide world changes as I gaze. What! grieve that Time has brought so soon The sober
of manbood on; As idly might I weep at noon,
To see the blush of morning gone. Could I forego the hopes that glow
In prospect like Elysian isles, And let the charming future go
With all her promises and smiles. The future! cruel were the power
Whose doom would tear thee from my heart, Thou sweetener of the present hour,
We cannot—no we must not part.
Oh! leave me still the rapid fight
That makes the changing seasons gay; The grateful speed that brings the night,
The swift and glad return of day.
The months that touch with added grace,
This little prattler at my knee;
New meaning every hour I see.
Well, I shall sit with aged men,
*A grisly beard becomes me then.
Upon my head when I am grey,
And smooth the path of my decay.
That speeds thy wing'd feet so fast,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
And, as thy shadowy train depart,
A lighter burden on the heart.
By H. ROWLAND Brown. WELL may we welcome Christmas with song and chime of
bells, For round the hearts of all on earth he casts his mystic
opens with the magic key of kindness every heart, And smiles to see the memory of sorrows past depart; He comes with mirth and laughter, with carol and with glee, And th' gladdest time of all the year is Christmas time
I love to hear kind voices! I love to see bright eyes !