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From the bending rushes,

Come, come, come! I am spirit-weary,

Weary of the earth; I would be a fairy,

Joining in your mirth!
At my wishes take me,

Little fairy elves;
By your magic, make me

Even as yourselves!
From the mossy hollow,

From the lily's dome, Follow, follow, follow,

Come, come, come!

Shall we to the river?

Shall we to the mead,_ Where the dewdrops quiver,

Where the rainbows feed? In yon airy palace

I will Ughtliest trip, From the acorn chalice

Deepest will I sip! Bring me to the waters

By the brisk wind fann'd; Let me see the daughters

Of your happy land! Or where the monsters wallow

'Neath the white sea foam, Follow, follow, follow,

Come, come, come!

'Neath the glistening laurel,

In the moon's pale light, Or midst the branching coral,

Where sea-bones are white, In earth, air, or ocean,

Stars, or flowers, or dew;
Anywhere for motion,

Anywhere with you!
So shall come forgetting

Of the days gone by;
So a never-setting

Sun shall mount our sky!

Skim we like the swallow,

Whereso'er we roam;
Follow, follow, follow,

Come,- come, come!

THE SLEEPING SORROW. Translated from the German of Ruckeet, by W. R. Evans.

I Have a sorrow dwelling

Here deep within my breast,
Asleep, but ever ready

To waken from his rest.
And when he wakes from slumber,

And when he looks on me,
Oh, then with dark clouds cover'd

A summer sun I see.
Mine eyes upon his fixing,

I gaze into them deep—
His ev'ry look I drink in

Until he falls asleep—
Until his tear-fringed eyelids

Are closed again in rest,
And he again is lying

Asleep within my breast.
How joy in life prevaileth,

How great the power of bliss,
That tenderly it veileth

A sorrow like to this!
t That life's pure gold of gladness

One grief can scarce alloy,
And that a single sadness

But serves to season joy.

By Charles Mackay.

Who shall be fairest?
Who shall be rarest?

Who shall be first in the songs that we sing?
She who is kindest,
When fortune is blindest,

Bearing through winter the blooms of the spring;

Charm of our gladness,

Friend of our sadness,
Angel of Life, when its pleasures take wing!

She shall be fairest,

She shall be rarest,
She shall be first in the songs that we sing!

Who shall be nearest, *

Noblest and dearest,
Named but with honour and pride evermore?

He, the undaunted,

Whose banner is planted
On glory's high ramparts and battlements hoar;

Fearless of danger,

To falsehood a stranger,
Looking not back while there's duty before!

He shall be nearest,

He shall be dearest, •

He shall be first in our hearts evermore!


The following lines were written and delivered by Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, at the anniversary of the birth of Robert Bums, on January 25th, 1S56, at Boston, Massachusetts, U. S. A.

The mountains glitter in the snow,
A thousand leagues asunder;
Yet here, amid the banquet's glow
I hear their voice of thunder.
Each giant's ice-bound goblet clinks,
A flowing stream is summon'd;
Wachusset to Ben Nevis drinks,
Monadnock to Ben Lomond.

Though years have clipp'd the eagle's plume
That crown'd the chieftain's bonnet,
The sun still sees the heather bloom,
The silver mists lie on it.
With tartan kilt and pbilabeg,
What stride was ever bolder,
Than his that showed the naked leg
. Beneath the plaided shoulder?

The echoes sleep on Cheviot's hills

That heard the bugle's blowing;

When down their sides the erimson rills

With mingled blood were flowing.

The hunts where gallant hearts were game,

The slashing on the border—

The raid that swoop'd with sword and flame—

Give place to law and order.

Not while the rocking steeples reel

With midnight tocsins ringing—

Not while the crashing war-notes peal,

God sets his poets singing.

The bird is silent in the night,

Or shrieks a cry of warning

While fluttering round the beacon's light—

But hear him greet the morning!

The lark of Scotia's morning sky!

Whose voice may sing his praises?

With heaven's own sunlight in his eye,

He walked among the daisies.

Till through the cloud of fortune's wrong,

He soar'd to fields of glory,

But left his land her sweetest song,

And earth her saddest story.

'Tis not the forts the builder piles

That chain the earth together;

The wedded crown, the sister isles

Would laugh at such a tether.

The kindling thought, the throbbing words,

That set the pulses beating,

Are stronger than a myriad swords

Of mighty armies meeting.

Thus while within the banquet glows,
Without the wild winds whistle,
We drink a triple health—" The Rose,
The Shamrock, and the Thistle!"
Their blended hues shall never fade
Till war has hush'd bis cannon;
Close twined as ocean-current's braid
The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon!

THE MANOR HOUSE. From a poem entitled The River, by Covbntky Patmorb.

It is a venerable place,

An old ancestral ground,
So wide, the rainbow wholly stands

Within its lordly bound;
And all about that large expanse

A river runneth round.

Upon a rise, where single oaks,

And clumps of beeches tall,
Drop pleasantly their shade beneath,

Half-hidden amidst them all,
Resteth in quiet dignity,

An ancient manor-hall.

Around its many gable-ends
The swallows wheel their flight;

Its huge fantastic weather-vanes
Look happy in the light;

Its warm face through the foliage gleams,
A comfortable sight.

The ivy'd turrets seem to love

The murmur of the bees;
And though this manor-hall hath seen

The snow of centuries,
How freshly still it stands amid

Its wealth of swelling trees!

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