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Quite equal to the above is the following, entitled My Aunt :

My aunt, my dear unmarried aunt ! Long years have o'er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp that binds her virgin zone:
I know it hurts her—though she looks as cheerful as she can ;
Her waist is ampler than her life, for life is but a span !
My aunt, my poor deluded aunt ! her hair is almost gray ;,
Why will she train that winter curl in such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down, and say she reads as well,
When through a double convex lens she just makes out to spell ?

*

*

Holmes's Wine Song has been justly admired :

Flash out a stream of blood-red wine!

For I would drink to other days;
And brighter shall their memory shine,

Seen Aaming through its crimson blaze.
The roses die, the summers fade ;

But every ghost of boyhood's dream
By nature's magic power is laid

To sleep beneath this blood-red stream.
It filled the purple grapes that lay

And drank the splendours of the sun,
Where the long Summer's cloudless day

Is mirrored in the broad Garonne ;
It pictures still the bacchant shapes

That saw their hoarded sunlight shed, -
The maidens dancing on the grapes, —

Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.
Beneath these waves of crimson lie,

In rosy fetters prisoned fast,
Those fitting shapes that never die,

The swift-winged visions of the past.

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Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim,

Each shadow rends its Aowery chain,
Springs in a bubble from its brim,

And walks the chambers of the brain.

Here, clad in burning robes, are laid

Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed ;
And here those cherished forms have strayed

We miss awhile, and call them dead.
What wizard fills the maddening glass ?

What soil the enchanted clusters grew,
That buried passions wake, and pass

In beaded drops of fiery dew?

*

*

*

Here is his graphic sketch of the Ploughman :

Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam
Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking tean,
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!
First in the field, before the reddening sun,
Last in the shadows when the day is done.
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod;
Still, where he treads the stubborn clods divide,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide ;
Matted and dense, the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark, the ridgy corn-field cleaves ;
Up the steep hill-side, where the labouring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain ;
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay,
The patient convoy breaks its destined way ;
At every turn the loosening chains resound,

maty marbler ist

The
On the lips that he has hest

In Thee bloom, and the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year

On the tome.

Cure Tencere Hermes,

Borten July 20th 1875

The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears,
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers.
These are the hands whose sturdy labour brings
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings :

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This is the page whose letters shall be seen
Changed by the sun to words of living green ;
This is the scholar whose immortal pen
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men ;
These are the lines that heaven-commanded Toil
Shows on his deed—the charter of the soil !

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