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His lines on Dawn are very choice—dewy and fragrant :

Throw up the window. 'Tis a morn for life
In its most subtle luxury. The air
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;

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And the south wind is like a gentle friend,
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
It has come over gardens, and the Aowers
That kissed it are betrayed : for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,

I know it has been triling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music, and the grass
Sends up its modest odour with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.

*

S. J. Clarke (“Grace Greenwood”) is the writer of these glowing stanzas on Love's Sweet Memories :

Canst thou forget, beloved, our first awaking

From out the shadowy calms of doubts and dreams,
To know Love's perfect sunlight round us breaking,
Bathing our beings in its gorgeous gleams-

Canst thou forget?
A sky of rose and gold was o'er us glowing,

Around us was the morning breath of May;
Then met our soul-tides, thence together Aowing,
Then kissed our thought-waves, mingling on their way :

Canst thou forget ?
*

*
Canst thou forget the childlike heart-outpouring

Of her whose fond faith knew no faltering fears ?
The lashes drooped to veil her eyes adoring,
Her speaking silence, and her blissful tears-

Canst thou forget ?
Canst thou forget, though all Love's spells be broken,

The wild farewell, which rent our souls apart?
And that last gift, affection's holiest token,
The severed tress, which lay upon thy heart-

Canst thou forget?

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Here is CroLy's fine tribute to Domestic Love :

0, love of loves !—to thy white hand is given

Of earthly happiness the golden key!
Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even,

When the babes cling around their father's knee ;

And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,

Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit! I've built a shrine ; and thou hast come,
And on its altar closed—forever closed thy plume!

We close our Fifth Poetic Evening with some of Horace SMITH's pictorial stanzas, entitled A Hymn to the Flowers :

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn, to twinkle

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle,

As a libation !

Ye matin-worshippers! who, bending lowly

Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye,
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy

Incense on high !

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate,
What numerous emblems of instructive duty

Your forms create !

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers ! are living preachers,

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers

From loneliest nook!

Floral apostles ! that, in dewy splendour,

“Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,” O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surreyder,

Your lore sublime !

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope !

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection !

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection

And second birth.

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