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She talked of all the wondrous laws

Which Nature's open book discloses,
And Childhood, -ere she made a pause,

Was fast asleep among the roses.
Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood's dreams

Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,
Of glory's toils, ambition's schemes,

Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure :
But to the couch where Childhood lies,

A more delicious trance is given,
Lit up by rays from Seraph eyes,

And glimpses of remembered heaven!

Motherwell, the Scottish poet, sketched his beautiful outline of Jeanie Morrison when only fourteen years of age. His plaintive and picturesque poetry has attracted the admiration of many, and especially that of Prof. Wilson. List to one of his lyrics :

Could love impart, by nicest art,

To speechless rocks a tongue,
Their theme would be, beloved, of thee, -

Thy beauty all their song.
And clerk-like, then, with sweet amen,

Would echo from each hollow
Reply all day; while gentle fay,

With merry whoop, would follow.
Had roses sense, on no pretence

Would they their buds unroll;
For, could they speak, 'twas from thy cheek

Their daintiest blush they stole.
Had lilies eyes, with glad surprise,

They'd own themselves outdonc,
When thy pure brow and neck of snow
Gleamed in the morning sun.

Could shining brooks, by amorous looks,

Be taught a voice so rare,
Then, every sound that murmured round
Would whisper—“ Thou art fair !”.

His lines on Summer are beautifully expressed :

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They come ! the merry Summer months of Beauty, Song, and

Flowers ;
They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to

bowers;
Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad; Aling cark and care aside,
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide ;
Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

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There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky,
But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody ;
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red

gold;
And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

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The Gude-Wife, a touching little poem, by James Linen, of California, Mr. Bryant has pronounced not unworthy of Burns :

I feel I'm growing auld, gude-wife—I feel I'm growing auld ;
My steps are frail, my een are bleared, my pow is unco bauld.
I've seen the snaws o’ fourscore years o'er hill and meadow fa',
And, hinnie ! were it no’ for you, I'd gladly slip awa'.
I feel I'm growing auld, gude-wife-I feel I'm growing auld;
Frae youth to age I've keepit warm the love that ne'er turned cauld.

I canna bear the dreary thocht that we maun sindered be ;
There's naething binds my poor auld heart to earth, gude-wife, but

thee.

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Here is a sweet, touching poem :

Sleep on, baby on the floor, tired of all thy playing-
Sleep with smile the sweeter for that you dropped away in ;

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On your curls' fair roundness stand golden lights serenely;
One cheek, pushed out by the hand, folds the dimple inly-
Little head and little foot, heavy laid for pleasure ;
Underneath the lids half-shut, plants the shining azure :

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Open-souled in noon-day sun, so you lie and slumber ;
Nothing evil having done, nothing can encumber.

And God knows, who sees us twain, child at childish leisure,
I am all as tired of pain, as you are of pleasure.
Very soon, too, by His grace, gently wrapt around me,
I shall show as calm a face—I shall sleep as soundly—
Differing in this, that you clasp your playthings sleeping,
While my hand must drop the few given to my keeping -
Differing in this, that I, sleeping, must be colder,
And, in waking presently, brighter to beholder,-
Differing in this beside,—(Sleeper, have you heard me?
Do you move, and open wide your great eyes toward me?)
That while I you draw withal from this slumber solely,
Me, from mine, an angel shall, trumpet-tongued and holy !

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This is from the pen of one of the most gifted personages of modern times, Mrs. E. BARRETT BROWNING, whose writings have been as warmly welcomed in our country as in England. Her life was one of prolonged bodily suffering, but her rare genius triumphed over all bodily infirmity. It was from her couch of pain that she sent forth those vigorous and beautiful productions that have crowned her as “the world's greatest poetess.”

After her marriage with the poet Browning, Florence became their home; it was here she died. Among the many favourite poems of this eminent poetess, is that on Sleep : here are two or three of its beautiful stanzas :

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward, unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep-
Now, tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this

“ He giveth His beloved sleep?"

What would we give to our beloved ?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep-
The Senate's shout, to patriot vows-
The monarch's Crown, to light the brows ?-

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

“Sleep soft, beloved”—we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber, when

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
His dew drops mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men toil and reap!
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

“He giveth His beloved sleep."

How prophetic of her own history were the closing lines :

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep;
Let one, most loving of ye all,
Say, “Not a tear must o’er her fall,-

"He giveth His beloved sleep !" ".

Her fine poem on Cowper is one of the happiest illustrations of her power of pathos : witness these stanzas:

Like a sick child, that knoweth not his mother while she blesses, And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses ;

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