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Amet. And so do I; good! on—

Men. A nightingale, Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she, The nightingale, did with her various notes Reply to: for a voice, and for a sound, Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe That such they were, than hope to hear again.

Amet. How did the rivals part?

Men. You term them rightly;
For they were rivals, and their mistress harmony.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird,
Whom art had never taught clefFs, moods or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice:
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.

Amet. Now for the bird!

Men. The bird, ordain'd to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds: which, when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for grief, down dropp'd she on his lute, And brake her heart! It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep a funeral elegy of tears; That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me A fellow mourner with him.

Amet. I believe thee.

Men. He look'd upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd and cried, "Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it; Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,

As he was pashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.

Amet. Thou hast discoursed
In truth, of mirth and pity.

Men. I reprieved The intended execution with intreaties, And interruption. But, my princely friend, It was not strange the music of his hand Did overmatch birds, when his voice and beauty Youth, carriage, and discretion must, from men Endued with reason, ravish admiration: From me they did.

Amet. But is this miracle Not to be seen?

Men. I won him by decrees To choose me his companion. Whence he is, Or who, as I durst modestly inquire, So gently he would woo not to make known; Only (for reasons to himself reserved) He told me, that some remnant of his life Was to be spent in travel: for his fortunes, They were nor mean nor riotous; his friends Not publish'd to the world, though not obscure: His country Athens, and his name Farthenophill.

SUSPIRIA.
By Longfellow.

Take them, 0 Death, and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own!

Thine image, stamp'd upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,

As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves.

Take them, O great Eternity!

Our little life is but a gust,
That bends the branches of thy tree,

And trails its blossoms in the dust.

MOUNTAIN CHILDREN.
By Mary Howitt.

Dwellers by lake and hill,
Merry companions of the bird and bee,

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
With unconstrained step and spirit free.

No crowd impedes your way,
No city wall proscribes your further bounds;

Where the wild flocks can wander ye may stray,
The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,
And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours,
And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd;

The grey and ancient peaks,
Round which the silent clouds hang day and night,

And the low voice of water, as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight:

These are your joys. Go forth,
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power,

For in His spirit God hath clothed the earth,
And speaks in love from every tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills
Its quiet way into your spirits finds,

And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth
Twining its flowers, and shouting full of glee,

And a pure, mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons;

Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands, Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!

Children of pleasant song
Are taught within the mountain solitudes,

For hoary legends to your wilds belong,
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth: earth and sky
To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely like the summer flowers that lie
In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread.

GUDE NICHT, AND JOY BE WT YE A'!

By Lady Nairn.

The best o' joys maun hae an end,

The best o' friends maun part, I trow;
The langest day will wear away,

And I maun bid farewell to you.
The tear will tell when hearts are fu',

For words, gin they hae sense ava,
They're broken, faltering, and few:

Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!

Oh, we hae wander'd far and wide,

O'er Scotia's lands o' frith and fell!
And mony a simple flower we've pu'ed,

And twined it wi' the heather-bell.
We've ranged the dingle and the dell,

The cot-house, and the baron's ha';
Now we maun tak a last farewell:

Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!

My harp, farewell! thy strains are past,

Of gleefu' mirth and heartfelt care;
The voice of song maun cease at last,

And minstrelsy itsel decay.
But, oh! whar sorrow canna win,

Nor parting tears are shed ava.
May we meet neighbour, kith, and kin,

And joy for aye be wi' us a'!

grillisnis.

WHERE HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ.

In sober mornings do not thou rehearse

The holy incantation of a verse ;—

But when that men have both well drunk and fed,

Let my enchantments then be sung or read.

When laurel spirts i' the fire, and when the hearth

Smiles to itself, and gilds the roof with mirth;

When up the Thyrse is raised, and when the sound

Of sacred orgies flies around, around;

When the rose reigns, and locks with ointment shine,

Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.

Heekick.

CHARITY.

The secret that does make a flower a flower

So frames it that to bloom is to be sweet,

And to receive to give.

No soil so sterile, and no living lot

So poor, but it hath somewhat still to spare

In bounteous odours. Charitable they

Who, be their having more or less, so have

That less is more than need, and more is less

Than the great heart's goodwill.

Sn>NEr Dobeix.

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