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Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way

That the same huts, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array

Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay,

I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come,

That I might there present it—oh! to whom?

THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.
By Mrs. Hemans.

'twas a lovely thought to mark the hours

As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers

That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,

And its graceful cup or bell,
In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew,

Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd

In a golden current on,
Ere from the garden, man's first abode,

The glorious guests were gone.

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So might the days have been brightly told—

Those days of song and dreams—
When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old,

By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest

Far off in a breezeless main,
Which many a bark with a weary guest

Hath sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,

Mark'd thus—even thus—on earth,
By the closing of one hope's delight,

And another's gentle birth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,

Shutting in turn, may leave
A lingerer still for the sun-set hour,

A eharm for the shaded eve.

gtillimis.

MEMORY.

Through the shadowy past, Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran, Lifting each shroud that time had cast O'er buried hopes.

Moore.

AN UTILITARIAN.

He is a slave to science. He would pull
Great Heaven to pieces; and anatomize
Each fragment of its crystal battlements:
Weigh out its hymns, divide its light, and class
The radiant feathers of archangels' wings.
Do we not know,—doth he not know, that still
Mysterious wonder aye must reign above us,
Struggle howe'er we may? Doth he not know,
That adoration and great wonder (like
Good deeds which bless the giver) ever lift
The soul above the dust, and strengthen us.

Barry Cornwall.

'Tis midnight: on the mountain's brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down;
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright:
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray.

Byrox.

TRUE NOBILITY.

The nobly born are not the only noble,
There is a line more royal, more majestic.
Than is the sceptred line of mighty crowns;
An ancestry so bright with glorious names,
That he who truly feels himself akin to such,
May stand before the throne, noble
Amidst the noblest, kingly amid kings.
He that inherits Honour, Virtue, Truth,
Springs from a lineage next the divine,
For these were heirs of God; and we, their heirs,
Prove nearest God, when we stand next to them:
Man heir to these is rich,—and wealth may bow
To greatness it can cherish,—not create.

Charles Swain.

Epitaph On A Child.

Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies;
Pray be silent, and not stir
The easy earth that covers her.

Herrick.

Not once or twice in our rough island story

The path of duty was the way to glory.

He that walks it only thirsting

For the right, and learns to deaden

Love of self before his journey closes,

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting

Into glossy purples, which outredden

All voluptuous garden roses.

Not once or twice in our fair island story

The path of duty was the way to glory.

He that ever following her commands,

Or with toil of heart, and knees, and hands,

Through the long gorge to the far light, has won

His path upward and prevail'd,

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled

Are close upon the shming table lands

To which our God himself is moon anil sun.

Alfred Tennyson.

THE MOWER'S MAIDEN.
Translated from the German of Uhland.

"Good morrow to thee, Mary, right early art thou laden! Love hath not made thee slothful, thou true and steadfast

maiden! Ay, if in three brief days, methinks, thy task of work be

done, I shall no longer have the heart to part thee from my son."

It was a wealthy farmer spake, it was a maiden listened— Oh, how her loving bosom swelled, and how her full eye

glistened! N"ew life is in her limbs, her hand outdoes her comrades all; See how she wields the scythe, and see how fast the full

crops fall!

And when the noon grows sultry, and the weary peasants

wend To sleep in pleasant thickets and o'er cooling streams to

bend; Still are the humming-bees at work beneath that burning

sky, And Mary, diligent as they, works on unceasingly.

The sun hath sunk, the evening bell gives gentle summons

home; "Enough," her neighbours cry, "enough! come, Mary,

prithee come!" Shepherds, and flocks, and husbandmen, pass homeward

through the dew, But Mary only whets her scythe, and goes to work anew.

And now the dews are thickening, the moon and stars are

bright; Sweet are the new-mown furrows, and sweet the songs of

night; But Mary lies not down to rest, and stands not still to

hear; The rustling of her ceaseless scythe is music to her ear.

Even thus from morn till evening, even thus from eve to morn,

She toils, by strong love nourished, by happy hope upborne;

Till when the third day's sun arose, the labour was complete,

And there stood Mary weeping, for joy so strange and

sweet. |

i

"Good morrow to thee, Mary! How now ?—the task is

done! I

Lo, for such matchless industry, rich guerdon shall be won;

But for the wedding—nay, indeed—my words were only jest, |

How foolish and how credulous we find a lover's breast!"

He spake and went his way, and there the hapless maid I

stood still, Her weary limits they shook, they sank, her heart grew

stiff and chill; Speech, sense, and feeling, like a cloud, did from her spirit

pass, And there they found her lying upon the new-mown grass! j

And thus a dumb and death-like life for years the maiden l

led— A drop of fragrant honey was all her daily bread. Oh, make her grave in pleasant shades, where softest

flow'rets grow, For such a loving heart as hers is seldom found below!

A HILL-SIDE WOOD.

From Arnold, a Drama, by Craddock Newtox.

Look, what a light of flowers is on the earth,
As if the proud, voluptuous blood of June
Blush'd out in roses. Let us take this wood,
Whose pleasant shade amid the sunshine lies
Like the great calm of thought above the stir
And strife of action. From this cool green rest
See how the young grain bendeth to the breeze,

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