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ANTICIPATIONS OF THE COUNTRY.

This beautiful poem is by Mary Anne Browne, afterwards Mrs. James Gray, whose wondrous geuius was blighted by a premature death.

The summer sunshine falls
O'er the hot vistas of the crowded town,

Mantling the dusty walls
With beauty and with glory not their own;

The summer skies are bright,
A canopy of peace above the strife

Of human hearts, that fight
And struggle on the battle-plain of life.

Summers have pass'd away
Since I a dweller midst this scene became,

And still their earliest ray
Hath sent a thirsty longing through my frame—

A longing to be far
In the green woodlands, in the pastures fair,

And not as travellers are;
My heart hath yearn'd to be a dweller there.

It comes, it comes at last!
All I have panted for is near me now;

Ere many hours have past
A cool untroubled breeze shall fan my brow;

The faint continuous hum
That hath been round me till 'twas scarcely heard,

No more shall near me come,
To mar the melodies of bee or bird.

No more the sultry street
Shall echo to my quick uneasy tread;

Gladly I turn my feet
To where the turf in daisied pride is spread.

No more the whirling wheel,
The tramping horses, and the people's shout—

Oh! how my heart will feel
The pleasant quiet circling me about.

Blessed to go away
To where the wild flower blooms and wood-bird sings,

And lightly o'er the spray
The purple vetch its wreathing garland flings.

I shall be happy yet!
I shall dismiss the cares that bind me now—

No more the world shall fret
The heart at ease, the calm unclouded brow.

Cease, thou too sanguine heart,
Exulting in the prospect now so fair;

Too glad, too gay thou art,
Remember grief may reach thee even there.

Instead of dreamings vain,
Of joys thou fondly hopest shall be thine,

Bethink thee of the pain
That sin and sorrow round thy coils will twine.

And think not happiness
But dwelleth with the bird, the flower, the bee;

And think not from distress
Even these pure lovely things can set thee free.

Be fill'd with grateful joy,
For 'tis a blessed privilege to dwell

Where little the alloy
Of art hath cast its cold restraining spell.

Yet for the common lot
Of bright hope dimm'd, of woe thou yet may'st share,

Even in that lonely spot,
Bend thou the knee, and lift the heart in prayer!

Thus should the thankful soul
Pour forth its tribute to the Lord above—

"Thou dost all hearts control,
Fill mine, oh Father! with abounding love.

"Thy hand hath guided me,
Hath brought me from the wilderness of men;

I bless thee thankfully,
That I may dwell with nature's peace again.

But, midst each lovely scene,
Be it my greatest joy to feel thy power

And know thy hand hath been
Moulding the hills and fashioning every flower.

"By every happy bird.
That pours its liquid song in gladness forth,

May my full heart be stirr'd
To sing of all thy glory and thy worth!

By every glorious star,
Seen in the azure sky, serene and bright,

Send wisdom from afar
Leading my spirit to the source of light.

"The dew when day is done
Should teach me how thy Spirit's dew can bless;

By the pure rising sun
Remind me of the Sun of Righteousness.

By every wayside flower,
By every fountain rippling in its glee,

By every day and hour,
Draw me, oh Father! nearer still to thee."

A TESTIMONY.

This very clever poem was contributed to a periodical called The Germ, commenced by a party of young Authors and Artists, whose names are now famous. The writer is Ellen Alleyn.

I Said of laughter: It is vain;—
Of mirth I said: What profits it ?—
Therefore I found a book, and writ

Therein, how ease and also pain,

How health and sickness, every one

Is vanity beneath the sun.

Man walks in a vain shadow; he

Disquieteth himself in vain.

The things that were shall be again.
The rivers do not fill the sea,
But turn back to their secret source:
The winds, too, turn upon their course.

Our treasures, moth and rust corrupt;

Or thieves break through and steal: or they
Make themselves wings and fly away.

One man made merry as he supp'd,

Nor guess'd how when that night grew dim,

His soul would be required of him.

We build our houses on the sand
Comely withoutside, and within;
But when the winds and rains begin

To beat on them, they cannot stand!

They perish, quickly overthrown,

Loose at the hidden basement stone.

All things are vanity, I said:

Yea vanity of vanities.

The rich man dies; and the poor dies: The worm feeds sweetly on the dead. Whatso thou lackest, keep this trust:— All in the end shall have but dust.

The one inheritance, which best

And worst alike shall find and share. The wicked cease from troubling there,

And there the weary are at rest;

There all the wisdom of the wise

Is vanity of vanities.

Man flourishes as a green leaf,
And as a leaf doth pass away;
Or, as a shade that cannot stay,
And leaves no track, his course is brief:
Yet doth man hope and fear and plan
Till he is dead :—oh foolish man!

Our eyes cannot be satisfied

With seeing; nor our ears be fill'd With hearing: yet we plant and build, And buy, and make our borders wide: We gather wealth, we gather care, But know not who shall be our heir.

Why should we hasten to arise
So early, and so late take rest?
Our labour is not good; our best

Hopes fade; our heart is stay'd on lies:

Verily, we sow wind; and we

Shall reap the whirlwind, verily.

He who hath little shall not lack;

He who hath plenty shall decay:

Our fathers went; we pass away;
Our children follow on our track:
So generations fail, and so
They are renew'd, and come and go.

The earth is fatten'd with our dead;

She swallows more and doth not cease;

Therefore her wine and oil increase And her sheaves are not numbered; Therefore her plants are green, and all Her pleasant trees lusty and tall.

Therefore the maidens cease to sing,

And the young men are very sad;

Therefore the sowing is not glad,
And weary is the harvesting.
Of high and low, of great and small,
Vanity is the lot of all.

A king dwelt in Jerusalem:

He was the wisest man on earth;

He had all riches from his birth, And pleasures till he tired of them: Then, having tested all things, he Witness'd that all are vanity.

A LYRIC.
From a Tragedy called Death's Jest Book.

If thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love and all its smart,

Then sleep, dear, sleep;
And not a sorrow

Hang any tear on your eyelashes;

Lie still and deep,
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes
The rim o' the sun to-morrow,
In eastern sky.

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