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He comes with a cordial voice,
That does one good to hear;
He shakes one heartily by the hand,
As he hath done many a year.
And after the little children
He asks in a cheerful tone, Jack, Kate, and little Annie,
He remembers them every one.
What a fine old fellow he is !
With his faculties all as clear, And his heart as warm and light,
As a man in his fortieth year!
What a fine old fellow, in troth,
Not one of your griping elves, Who, with plenty of money to spare,
Think only about themselves.
Not he! for he loveth the children,
And holiday begs for all ; And comes with his pockets full of gifts,
For the great ones and the small !
And he tells us witty old stories ;
And singeth with might and main ; And we talk of the old man's visit
Till the day that he comes again!
UNFOLDING THE FLOCKS.
By BEAUMONT and FLETCHER
SHEPHERDS, rise, and shake off sleep
See the blushing morn doth peep
Through your windows, while the sun
To the mountain-tops has run,
Gilding all the vales below
With the rising flames, which grow
Brighter with his climbing still-
Up! ye lazy swains ! and fill
Bag and bottle for the field;
Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield
To the bitter north-east wind.
Call the maidens up, and find
Who lies longest, that she may
Be chidden for untimed delay.
Feed your faithful dogs, and pray
Heaven to keep you from decay,
So unfold, and then away.
A PALE LADY.
A. She is not fresh in colour, like the rose;
Nor bright like morning. On her cheek there lies
Such paleness as becomes the maiden moon,
When clouds are threatening, and the angry storm
Mutters of death to come.
B. She is not dead ?
A. Death could not kill her: he but kiss'd her cheek,
And made 't a little paler. So, she lives,
And fades,—and fades; and in the end (as day
Dies into evening), she 'll some summer night
Shrink and be seen no more.
THE MOTHER AND SON.
A mother kind walks forth in the even,
She, with her little son, for pleasure given
To tread the fringed banks of an amorous flood,
That with its music courts a sylvan wood;
There ever talking to her only bliss,
That now before, and now behind her is,
She stoops for flowers, the choicest may be had,
And bringing them to please her little lad,
Spies in his hand some baneful flower or weed,
Whereon he 'gins to smell, perchance to feed,
With a more earnest haste she runs to him
And pulls them from him.
REVERENCE FOR NATURE.
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
Whene'er their genius bids their souls depart,
Among their kindred, in the native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproached me; the ever sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.
W. S. LANDOR.
'Twas then than in me 'gan to bud anew
Immortal Truth-heaven's brightest evergreen!
The lily, Virtue, near; and hard by grew
The pansy, Peace, the star-flower, Faith, and then
Sweet woodbine, Hope,-that loves the heart t' entwine!
How precious now became their hues, their scents ; Dearer, perhaps because they bloom'd between
My spirits twice ten thousand sin-made rents,
As blossoms lovelier look on time-reft battlements !
SORROW THE BEST PREACHER. All vast thoughts and mysteries make me sad.
Alex. Well, and why not? The soul that hath not sorrow'd Knows neither its own weakness nor its strength. Sorrow reveals heaven to us : for our souls Hang in the infinite-like sun-dyed globes On which the tine-rays of the present play: But ever and anon a shadow comes Over and on them, cast forth from their thrones In the great World-to-come, when a bright seraph Glides like a glow behind them. And our woes Are like the moon reversed, the broad bright disk Turn'd heavenwards—the dark side towards us, Till God in His great mercy moves them round, And rolls them with a wise and gentle hand, Into the dim horizon of the past, To bless us with their smile of tear-like lustre.
J. STANYAN Bigg.
I heard a thousand blended potes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
Linger yet upon the hour,
Of the green leaf and the flower;
Art thou happy? For thy sake
Do the birds their music make-
Birds with golden plumes that bring
Sunshine from a distant spring.
For thine eyes the roses grow
Red as sunset, white as snow,
And the bees are gathering gold
Ere the winter hours come cold.
Flowers are colouring the wild-wood,
Art thou weary of thy childhood ?
Break not its enchanted reign-
Such life never knows again.
I love this light:
'Tis the old age of day, methinks ; or haply
The infancy of night: pleasant it is.
Shall we be dreaming ?-Hark! The nightingale,
Queen of all music, to her listening heart
Speaks, and the woods are still.
AN AUTUMN STORM.
From a poem entitled Leonilda, by Felix Melbred, lately published.
'Twas autumn; and a summer's festival
Of sunlight, from the stores of generous earth,
Had drain'd that cup which fill'd at Nature's call.
Gold-mantled trees droop'd over dusty dearth;
No herbal beauty bless'd the land with birth-
A thirsty asking hung about the scene;
The stream that play'd its gurgling song of mirth,
With pebbled path but show'd what it had been
The broad, hot landscape sparkled with a sandy sheen.
At length the waters gather'd in the sky,
Black masses, march'd from out the cloudy west,
Open'd anon by lurid lightning's eye,
With lungs of thunder shook the eagle's nest.
The wind, like trouble lock'd in human breast,
Betray'd itself with sighs, whilst the big tear
Of tempest plash'd in dust, and dead leaves dress'd
In sympathy the earth. A conscious fear
Quiver'd in leaden air, and told the storm was near.
Soon came the drenching deluge from the cloud,
A roaring cataract of angry rain,
Which deaden'd thunder with its liquid shroud.
The insect world had all crept home again
With closed wings that clasp'd their tiny pain.
Anon you heard with measured step retreat
The battling elements—then the blue vein
Blest once more heaven's brow; and freshly sweet, The wind with sunbeams play'd as when two children meet.
From the Scotsman, where it appeared anonymously. .
Ar her window standeth Edith,
Listening while her lover pleadeth