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Bower, a shady enclosure or recess in a garden; the homes appear, from the number of trees surrounding them, as if they were built in a bower.

Silvery brooks, the
streams and brooks
look like silver in the
sunlight.

Hamlet-fane, the vil-
lage church.
Glowing orchards,
being bright with
blossoms or fruit.

Nook, a quiet little
place.

Lowly, the poor. Eaves, that part of the roof which juts beyond the walls. Hearts of native proof, brave, strong

men.

Hallowed, looked upon as being holy.

The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers*
Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime
Floats through their woods at morn ;
All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage Homes of England !
By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,*
And round the hamlet-fanes.*

Through glowing orchards* forth they peep,
Each from its nook* of leaves;

*

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.*

The free, fair Homes of England;
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof* be reared
To guard each hallowed * wall!

And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

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THE IVY GREEN.-Dickens.

CHARLES DICKENS (1812-1870), a native of Landport, Portsmouth. In early life he was connected with the press as a parliamentary reporter. The Pickwick Papers early established his reputation as the greatest living humorist. He was admired by a universal circle of readers. Chief works: Nicholas Nickleby, Old Curiosity Shop, David Copperfield, Dombey and Son, Bleak House, &c.

Dainty, being very
particular as to one's
food.

Ivy, an evergreen
creeping plant.
I ween, I believe.

Whim, a fancy, a sudden change of the mind.

Rare, uncommon.

On a dainty* plant is the Ivy* green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!

On right choice food are his meals, I ween,*

In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd, 5
To pleasure his dainty whim ;*

And the mould'ring dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

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Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch* old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend, the huge Oak Tree!
15 And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously twines and hugs * around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

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Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd,
And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade
From its hale* and hearty green.

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Shall fatten on the past;

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For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on where time has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Staunch, trusty,

sound, firm.

Hug, to clasp tightly.

Hale, healthy.]

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.-Campbell.

THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844) was a native of Glasgow, and rose to early fame by the publication of his Pleasures of Hope in 1799. Other poems: Gertrude of Wyoming, a tale of Pennsylvania; Theodoric, a Swiss story; and a number of lyrics, which are, perhaps, the finest in the language.

A CHIEFTAIN,* to the Highlands* bound,
Cries: " Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."*

5 "Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,*
This dark and stormy water?"
"Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,*
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men

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Chieftain, the head

of a clan.

Highlands, the mourtainous districts in the north and west of Scotland.

Ferry, a place where people are rowed across a water. Lochgyle, a small arm of the sea which runs off in a north-west direction from Loch Long.

Ulvi's isle, a small
island on the west
coast of Mull,

Glen, a narrow valley
among
the moun-
tains.

Heather, the heath,

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Out spoke the hardy Highland wight:*
"I'll go, my chief-I'm ready:

It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome * lady :

"And, by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry ;

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith * was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven * each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her-

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

*

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing ;*

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath *

was changed to wailing.*

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For sore dismayed* through storm and shade, 45
His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,*

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief;

My daughter!-oh! my daughter!"

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'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.*

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TO A FIELD MOUSE.-Burns.

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796), the great lyric poet of Scotland, was the son of a small farmer in Ayrshire. He owed little or nothing to education, and, in his genius, followed the impulse of nature alone. Chief poems: Hallowe'en, The Cottar's Saturday Night, Tam o' Shanter, and a magnificent collection of songs.

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WEE,* sleekit,* cow'rin',* tim'rous beastie,*
O what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!*

I wad be laith * to rin and chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!*

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles,* but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker* in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,*
And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin':
And naething, now, to big* a new ane,
O' foggage* green!

And bleak December's winds ensuin',*
Baith snell * and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter coming fast;

*

And cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter* past
Out thro' thy cell.*

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble *
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble
But house or hald,*

To thole the winter's sleety dribble
And cranreuch* cauld!

Wee, very little.
Sleekit, sleek, smooth.
Cow'rin', crouching
with fear.

Beastie, little beast.
Bickering battle, rac-
ing backwards and
forwards.

Laith, unwilling. Pattle, the stick used for clearing away the clodsfrom the plough,

Whyles, sometimes.

A daimen icker, &c.,
an ear of corn now
and then from the
bundle.
Lave, rest.

Wa's, walls.
Big, build.

Foggage, after-grass.

Ensuin', coming on.

Snell, biting.

Cozie, comfortable,
happy.

Coulter, plough-iron.
Cell, nest.

Stibble, stalks of corn left in the ground after reaping.

But house, &c., without a dwelling place. Thole, bear. Cranreuch, hoarfrost.

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Dew, the moisture which falls upon the earth from the air, chiefly at night.

Espied, saw.

Kine, cows.

Tether'd, fastened.

THE PET LAMB.-Wordsworth.

THE dew* was falling fast, the stars began to
blink;

I heard a voice; it said "Drink, pretty creature,
drink!"

And looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied *
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at
its side.

Nor sheep, nor kine* were near; the lamb was
all alone

And by a slender cord was tether'd* to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden
kneel,

While to that mountain lamb she gave its even-
ing meal.

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his
supper took,

Seem'd to feast with head and ears; and his tail
with pleasure shook :
"Drink, pretty creature, drink!" she said in

such a tone

That I almost received her heart into my own.
'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of
beauty rare!

I watch'd them with delight, they were a lovely

pair;

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Now with her empty can the maiden turn'd away; 15
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did

she stay.

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