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Those isles, the beautiful Azores,
The fortunate, the fair!
We look'd for their perpetual spring
To find it was not there.
Bright El Dorado, land of gold,
We have so sought for thee,
There's not a spot in all the globe
Where such a land can be.

How pleasant were the wild beliefs

That dwelt in legends old:

Alas! to our posterity

Will no such tales be told.

We know too much; scroll after scroll

Weighs down our weary shelves;

Our only point of ignorance

Is center'd in ourselves.

Alas! for thy past mystery,

For thine untrodden snow—

Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none

To guard thy outraged brow?

Thy summit, once the unapproach'd,

Hath human presence own'd,

With the first step upon thy crest,

Mont Blanc, thou wert dethroned!

A KETURN.
From Coleridge's Garden of Boccaccio.

Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep
Emerging from a mist: or like a stream

Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,
But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream—

Gazed by an idle eye, with silent might

The picture stole upon my inward sight.

A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,

As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.

And one by one (I know not whence) were brought

All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought

In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost

Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost;

Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,

Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;

Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan

Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!

Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves

Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves;

Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,

That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;

Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;

Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,

Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,

To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.

And many a verse which to myself I sang,

That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,

Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd.

And last, a matron now, of sober mien

Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,

Whom as a fuery child my childhood woo'd

Even in my dawn of thought—Philosophy—

Though then, unconscious of herself, pardie,

She bore no other name than Poesy;

And like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,

That had but newly left a mother's knee,

Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone,

As if with elfin playfellows well known,

And life reveal'd to innocence alone.

THE TOWN CHILD AND COUNTRY CHILD.

By Allan Cujixlngham.

Child of the country! free as air

Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;

Born, like the lily, where the dew

Lies odorous when the day is new;

Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee,

Nursed to sweet music on the knee,

Lull'd in the breast to that glad tune

Which winds make 'mong the woods of June;

I sing of thee;—'tis sweet to sing

Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the town! for thee I sigh:
A gilded roofs thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy dasied sod,
A narrow street thy houndless road;
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp;
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines:
I sing of thee in sadness; where
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair?

Child of the country! thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet;
With thee I wander forth to see
The flowers which most delight the bee;
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April while she nursed her young;
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where
She bred her twins the timorous hare;
The knoll wrought o'er with wild bluebells,
Where brown bees build their balmy cells;
The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
Where trouts leap when the day is cool j
The shilfa's nest that seems to be
A portion of the sheltering tree;
And other marvels which my verse
Can find no language to rehearse.

Child of the town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet!
Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles;
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak;
And thou art cabin'd and confined
At once from sun, and dew, and wind;
Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone;
The coachman there careering reels
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels;
And commerce pours each poring son
In pelfs pursuit and hollos' run.
While flush'd with wine, and stung at play,
Men rush from darkness into day.

The stream's too strong for thy small bark;
There nought can sail, save what is stark.

Fly from the town, sweet child; for health
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth.
There is* a lesson in each flower,
A story in each stream and bower:
On every herb on which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod
To hope, and holiness, and God.

TO A WEARIED WORKER.
By J. M. W.

"Rest ?"—Thou must not seek for rest

Until thy task be done;
Thou must not lay thy burthen down

Till setting of the sun.

Thou must not weary of the life,

Nor scorn thy lowly lot,
Nor cease to work, because such work

Thy neighbour prizeth not.

Thou must not let thy heart grow cold,

Nor hush each generous tone,
Nor veil the bright love in thine eye;

Thou must not live alone.

When others strive, thou too must help,

And answer when they call;
The power to love God gave to thee,

Thou must employ for all.

"Freedom and Rest" thou wouldest have:

Freedom is service meet;
And rest of soul is but a name

For toil amid life's heat. i

Unmoved to gaze upon the strife,

Is not true liberty;
To others thou must minister,

Wouldst thou be truly free.

In the outward world 'tis vain to seek

The Eden thou wouldst win; That ancient paradise is gone—

Thine Eden is within.

AUTUMN WILD FLOWERS.
By Mary Howitt.

The autumn sun is shining,
Grey mists are on the hill;

A russet tint is on the leaves,
But flowers are blowing still!

Still bright in wood and meadow;

On moorlands dry and brown; By little streams; by rivers broad;

On every breezy down,

The little flowers are smiling,
With chilly dew-drops wet,

Are saying with a spirit-voice—
"We have not vanish'd yet.

"No, though the spring be over;

Though summer's strength be gone; Though autumn's wealth be garner'd,

And winter cometh on;

"Still we have not departed,

We linger to the last,
And even on early winter's brow

A cheerful ray will cast!"

—Go forth, then, youths and maidens,

Be joyful whilst ye may;
Go forth, then, child and mother,

And toiling men grown grey!

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