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The summer is coming to sky and to bower;
The tree that you planted will soon be in flower :
You loved the soft season of song and of bloom ;
0, shall it return, and find you in the tomb ?

BOY.

Yes, mother, I loved in the sunshine to play, Aud talk with the birds and the blossoms all day, But sweeter the songs of the spirits on high, And brighter the glories round God in the sky : I see them ! I hear them ! they pull at my

heart! My mother, my mother, O let me depart !

MOTHER.

O do not desert us! Our hearts will be drear,
Our home will be lonely, when you are not here.
Your brother will sigh ’mid his playthings, and say
I wonder dear Willie so long can delay.
That foot like the wild wind, that glancelike a star-
O what will this world be, when they are afar?

BOY.

This world, dearest mother! O live not for this; No, press on with me to the fulness of bliss ! And, trust me, whatever bright fields I may roam, My heart will not wander from you and from

home.

Believe me still near you on pinions of love;
Expect me to hail you when soaring above.

MOTHER

Well,—go, my beloved ! The conflict is o'er :
My pleas are all selfish; I

urge

them no more. Why chain your bright spirit down here to the

clod, So thirsting for freedom, so ripe for its God ? Farewell, then ! farewell, till we meet at the

Throne,

Where love fears no partings, and tears are un

known!

BOY.

O glory! O glory! what music! what light! What wonders break in on my heart, on my

sight! I come, blessed spirits ! I hear you from high. O frail, faithless nature, can this be to die? So near! what, so near to my Saviour and King ? O help me, ye angels, His glories to sing !

THE ALPS.

The Alps-the Alps—the joyous Alps,

Are all around me heaving high. I bow me to their snowy scalps,

That rush into the sky.

Hail, lordly land of storm and strife,

To poetry and wonder dear ! 'Tis worth an age of common life

To feel as I do here :

To look down on that deep-blue lake;

To look up in that glorious sky; To feel my soul within me wake,

And ask for wings to fly:

To bound the airy heights along ;

Above the floating clouds to stand ; And meet Creation's God among

The wonders of His hand.

Hail, scenes of holy grandeur ! hail !

Where mortal sense stands hushed and awed. O, who could gaze on such, and fail

To think of Thee, my God?

Alone and dread Thou dwellest here,

The Source and Soul of all I see. I look around in joy and fear,

And feel I am with Thee !

I see Thee on the mountains sit,

At summer's noon, sublime and still ; Or in the giant shadows flit

Along from hill to hill.

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