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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!
Little fairy elves;
Even as yourselves!
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 with you!
Of the days gone by;
Sun shall mount our sky!
Skim we like the swallow,
Whereso'er we roam;
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,
To waken from his rest.
And when he looks on me,
A summer sun I see.
I gaze into them deep—
Until he falls asleep—
Are closed again in rest,
Asleep within my breast.
How great the power of bliss,
A sorrow like to this!
One grief can scarce alloy,
But serves to season joy.
FAIREST AND DEAREST.
Who shall be fairest?
Who shall be first in the songs that we sing?
Bearing through winter the blooms of the spring;
Charm of our gladness,
Friend of our sadness,
She shall be fairest,
She shall be rarest,
Who shall be nearest, *
Noblest and dearest,
He, the undaunted,
Whose banner is planted
Fearless of danger,
To falsehood a stranger,
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,
Though years have clipp'd the eagle's plume
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,
THE MANOR HOUSE. From a poem entitled The River, by Covbntky Patmorb.
It is a venerable place,
An old ancestral ground,
Within its lordly bound;
A river runneth round.
Upon a rise, where single oaks,
And clumps of beeches tall,
Half-hidden amidst them all,
An ancient manor-hall.
Around its many gable-ends
Its huge fantastic weather-vanes
Its warm face through the foliage gleams,
The ivy'd turrets seem to love
The murmur of the bees;
The snow of centuries,
Its wealth of swelling trees!