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Fairies and sprites, and goblin elves we call them,

Famous for patronage of lovers true;
No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them,
So do not thus with crabbed frowns appall them.


For these are kindly ministers of nature

To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress;
Pretty they be, and very small of stature,

still consorts with littleness :
Wherefore the sum of good is still the less,
And mischief grossest in this world of wrong:

So do these charitable dwarfs redress
The tenfold ravages of giants strong,
To whom great malice and great might belong.

Here are two gems :

We watched her breathing through the night, her breathing soft and

low, As in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, so slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers to eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, our fears our hopes beliedWe thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, and chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed-she had another morn than ours.

Love thy mother, little one! kiss and clasp her neck again, Hereafter she may have a son will kiss and clasp her neck in vain :

Love thy mother, little one. Gaze upon her living eyes, and mirror back her love for thee,– Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs to meet them when they cannot


Gaze upon her living eyes !

Press her lips the while they glow with love that they have often

told, Hereafter thou mayst press in woe, and kiss them till thine own

are cold.

Press her lips the while they glow!

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the poor.

It is the glory of Hood, that he was not only a master poet, but a philanthropist-he remembered the forgotten. It has been well remarked, that his greatest work is that which his poems will do for

The critic already referred to remarks : “ Hood was not one of those lofty and commanding minds that rise but once in an age, on the mountain ranges of which light first smiles and last lingers. He does not keep his admirers standing at gaze in distant reverence and awe. He is no cold, polished, statuesque idol of the intellect, but one of the darlings of the English heart.

You never think of Hood as dead and turned to marble: statue or bust could never represent him to the imagination. It is always a real human being, with the quaintest, kindliest smile, that looks into your face, and straightway your heart is touched to open and let him in. Few names will call forth so tender a familiarity of affection as that of rare Tom Hood.” His last lines were these :


Farewell, Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night-
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapour chill;
Strong the earthy odour grows—
I smell the mould above the rose !

Welcome, Life! the Spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;

Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn.
O’er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold-
I smell the rose above the mould !

The subjoined plaintive and beautiful lines are part of Mrs. Maclean's (L. E. L.) poem on Night at Sea :

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing

Has vanished from the waters, where it Aung
A royal colour, such as gems are throwing

Tyrian or regal garniture among.
'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming ;

Through the slight vapour trembles each dim star ;
I turn away—my heart is sadly dreaming

Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar.
My friends, my absent friends! do you think of me as I think

of you?

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The world, with one vast element omitted

Man's own especial element, the earth ;
Yet o'er the waters is his rule transmitted

By that great knowledge wherein power has birth.
How oft, on some strange loveliness while gazing,

Have I wished for you—beautiful as new,
The purple waves, like some wild army, raising

Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through.
My friends, my absent friends! do you think of me as I think

of you?

Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning,

Up springs the Aying-fish, like life’s false joy,

Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorning

Whose very light is fated to destroy.
Ah, so doth genius, on its rainbow pinion,

Spring from the depths of an unkindly world ;
So spring sweet fancies from the heart's dominion-

Too soon in death the scorched-up wing is furled.
My friends, my absent friends! whate’er I see is linked with

thoughts of you.



Eastman, of Vermont, has given us, with daguerreotype fidelity, a little domestic picture, that is a gem for its simple pastoral beauty :The farmer sat in his easy chair, smoking his pipe of clay, While his hale old wife with busy care was clearing the dinner

away : A sweet little girl, with fine blue eves,

On her grandfather's knee was catching fies. The old man laid his hand on her head, with a tear in his wrinkled

faceHe thought how often her mother, dead, had sat in the self-same

As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye,

“Don't smoke,” said the child,“ how it makes you cry !” The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, where the shade after

noon used to steal, The busy old wife by the open door was turning the spinning wheel,

And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree

Had plodded along to almost threeStill the farmer sat in his easy chair, while, close to his heaving

breast, The moistened brow, and the cheek so fair, of his sweet grandchild

were press’d;
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay-
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day!

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Here is a single specimen of the vigorous verse of EBENEZER Elliott, the “poet of the poor :”—

God said—“Let there be light !” Grim darkness felt His might,

and Aed away :

Then startled seas, and mountains cold, shone forth, all bright in

blue and gold, and cried, “ 'Tis day—tis day !” Hail, holy light !” exclaimed the thunderous cloud that Aamed

o'er daisies white; And lo! the rose, in crimson drest, leaned sweetly on the lily's

breast, and, blushing, murmured—“Light !” Then was the skylark born; then rose the embattled corn; then

floods of praise Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon; and then, in silent night, the

moon poured forth her pensive lays. Lo! heaven's bright bow is glad! Lo! trees and Aowers, all clad

in glory, bloom.

LAMAN BLANCHARD's beautiful lines, The Mother's Hope, glow with all the rich tenderness of the dainty theme :

Is there, when the winds are singing in the happy summer-time, When the raptured air is ringing with earth's music heavenward

springing Forest chirp, and village chime,-is there, of the sounds that Aoat Unsighingly, a single note, half so sweet, and clear, and wild,

As the laughter of a child ?

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Organ finer, deeper, clearer, though it be a stranger's tone,
Than the winds and waters dearer, more enchanting to the hearer,

For it answereth to his own;
But of all its witching words, those are sweetest, bubbling wild
Through the laughter of a child.


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