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There is music when summer is with us on earth,

Sent forth from the valley, the mountain, the sky; There is music where rivers and fountains have birth,

Or leaves whisper soft as the wind passeth by; There is music in voices that gladden our homes,

In the lay of the mother, the laugh of the child; There is music wherever the wanderer roams,

In city or solitude, garden or wild :— Oh, God of Creation! these sounds are of Thee, Thou surely hast made them for none but the free!

REMEMBRANCE.
By Hamilton Aide.

When we are parted, let me lie
In some far corner of thy heart
Silent, and from the world apart,
Like a forgotten melody.
Forgotten of the world beside,
Cherish'd by one, and one alone,
For some loved memory of its own;
So let me in thy heart abide

When we are parted!

When we are parted, keep for me,
The sacred stillness of the night,—
That hour, sweet love, is mine by right:
Let others claim thy day of thee!
The cold world sleeping at our feet,
My spirit shall discourse with thine
When stars upon thy pillow shine.
At thy heart's door I stand and beat

Though we are parted j

WOMEN AND CHILDREN.
By Frederick Tennyson.

Oh! if no faces were bebeld on earth,
But toiling manhood, and repining age,
No welcome eyes of innocence and mirth
To look upon us kindly, who would wage
The gloomy battle for himself alone?
Or through the dark of the o'erhanging cloud
Look wistfully for light? Who would not groan
Beneath his daily task, and weep aloud?

But little children take us by the hand,
And gaze with trustful cheer into our eyes;
Patience and fortitude beside us stand
In woman's shape, and waft to heav'n our sighs:
The guiltless child holds back the arm of guilt
Upraised to strike, and woman may atone
With sinless tears for sins of man, and melt
The damning seal when evil deeds are done. •

A LOVERS' FANCY.
By Gerald Massey.

Sweet Heaven! I do love a maiden,
Radiant, rare, and beauty-laden:
When she's near me, heaven is round me,
Her dear presence doth so bound me!
I could wring my heart of gladness,
Might it free her lot of sadness!
Give the world, and all that's in it,
Just to press her hand a minute;
Yet she weeteth not I love her;

Never dare I tell the sweet
Tale, but to the stars above her,

And the flowers that kiss her feet.

O! to live and linger near her,

And in tearful moments cheer her!

I could be a bird to lighten

Her dear heart,—her sweet eyes brighten:

Or in fragrance, like a blossom,
Give my life up on her bosom!
Fur my love's withouten measure,
All its pangs are sweetest pleasure;
Yet she weeteth not I love her;

Never dare I tell the sweet
Tale, but to the stars above her,

And the flowers that kiss her feet.

THE CASTLE.

A passage in a poem entitled The KarTs Return, by Owen Meredith.

Ragged and tall stood the castle wall.

And the squires at their sport, in the great South Court,

Lounged all day long from stable to hall

Laughingly, lazily, one and all.

The land about was barren and blue,

And swept by the wing of the wet sea-mew.

Seven fishermen's huts on a shelly shore:

Sand-heaps behind, and sand-banks before:

And a black champaign streak'd white all thro'

To a great salt pool which the ocean drew,

Suck'd into itself, and disgorged it again

To stagnate and steam on the mineral plain;

Not a tree or a bush in the circle of sight,

But a bare blackthorn which the sea-winds had wither'd

With the drifting scum of the surf and blight,

And some patches of gray grass-land to the right,

Where the lean red-hided cattle were tether'd:

A reef of rock wedged the water in twain,

And a stout stone tower stood square to the main.

And the flakes of the spray that were jerk'd away

From the froth on the lip of the bleak blue sea

Were sometimes flung by the wind, as it swung

Over turret and terrace and balcony,

To the garden below where, in desolate corners

Under the mossy green parapet there,

The lilies crouch'd, rocking their white heads like mourners,

And burn'd off the heads of the flowers that were

Pining and pale in their comfortless bowers,

Dry-bush'd with the sharp stubborn lavender,

And paven with discs of the torn sunflowers,

Which, day by day, were strangled and stripp'd
Of their ravelling fringes and brazen bosses,
And the hardy mary-buds nipp'd and ripp'd
Into shreds for the beetles that lurk'd in the mosses.

Here she lived alone, and from year to year

She saw the black belt of the ocean appear

At her casement each morn as she rose; and each morn

Her eye fell first on the bare blackthorn.

This was all; nothing more ;—or sometimes on the shore

The fishermen sang when the fishing was o'er;

Or the lowing cf oxen fell dreamily,

Close on the shut of the glimmering eves,

Thro' some gusty pause in the moaning sea,

When the pools were splash'd pink by the thirsty beeves.

Or sometimes, when the pearl-lighted morns drew the tinges

Of the cold sunrise up their amber fringes,

A white sail peer'd over the rim of the main,

Look'd all about o'er the empty sea,

Stagger'd back from the fine line of white light again,

And dropp'd down to another world silently.

Then she breath'd freer. With sickening dread

She had watrh'd five pale young moons unfold

From their notchy cavern in light, and spread

To the fuller light, and again grow old,

And dwindle away to a luminous shred.

"He will not come back till the Spring's green and gold.

And I would that I with the leaves were dead,

Quiet somewhere with them in the moss and the mould,

When he and the summer come this way," she said.

And when the dull sky darken'd down to the edges,
And the keen frost kindled in star and spar,
The sea might be known by a noise on the ledges
Of the long crags, gathering power from afar
Thro' his roaring bays, and crawling back
Hissing, as o'er the wet pebbles he dragg'd
His skirt of foam fray'd, dripping, and jagg'd,
Anil reluctantly fell down the smooth hollow shell
Of the night, whose lustrous surface of black
In spots to an intense blue was worn.
But later, when up on the sullen sea-bar

But do not detain me now; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground,

And ever I see her s0ft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,

Stav as you are and be loved for ever! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not,

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle—

Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

Where 1 find her not, beauties vanish;

Whither I follow her, beauties flee;
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,

Treasure my lady's lightest foot-fall;
Ah, you may flout and turn up your laces—

Roses, you are not so fair after all!

A DUNGEON.
By Coleridge.

And this place my forefathers made for man!

This is the process of our love and wisdom

To each poor brother who offends against us—

Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?

Is this the only cure? Merciful God!

Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up

By ignorance and parching poverty,

His energies roll back upon his heart,

And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison,

They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot.

Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks;

And this is their best cure! Uncomforted

And friendless solitude, groaning, and tears,

And savage faces, at the clanking hour,

Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon

By the lampis dismal twilight! So he lies,

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