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The same that won Eve's matron smile

In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought;
Ye may be found if ye are sought,

And as we gaze we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,

Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,
And guilty man, where'er he roams,

Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet,
But we may taste our solace sweet,

And come again to-morrow.

Ye fearless in your nests abide

Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried

By all but lowly eyes:
For
ye

could draw th' admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys:
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,

He taught us how to prize.

Ye felt

your

Maker's smile that hour,
As when He paused and own'd you good;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,

Ye felt it all renew'd.
What care ye now,

if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form ?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm-

Ye fear no vexing mood.

Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you

and

caress, How few the happy secret find

Of your calm loveliness !

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“ Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight;
Go sleep, like closing flowers, at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless.”

Keble.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame !
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying ;
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature! cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark, they whisper-angels say,
“ Sister spirit, come away !"
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals
my senses, shuts

my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ?
Tell me, my soul-can this be death ?
The world recedes—it disappears !
Heaven opens on my eyes !—my ears

With sounds seraphic ring !
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly!
O grave ! where is thy victory?
o death! where is thy sting ?

Pope.

HOME.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Belov'd by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutor'd

and love-exalted youth ;

age,

74

SUNRISE ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth, supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his soften'd looks benignly blend,
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of life :
In the clear heav'n of her delightful eye
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found ?
Art thou a man?-a patriot ?-look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

J. Montgomery.

SUNRISE ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

EARTH has not anything to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty ;
This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning, silent, bare;
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air,

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Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will ;
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still !

Wordsworth.

THE CLOUD.

I BRING fresh showers, for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid

In their noon-day dreams ;
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one,
When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under ;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass

in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,

Lightning, my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder-

It struggles and howls at fits ;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea :
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

76

THE SWISS PEASANT.

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves remains;
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the

pores

of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.

Shelley.

THE SWISS PEASANT.

HERE the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread.
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But, winter, lingering, chills the lap of May ;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.

Yet still, ev'n here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage

disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all.

Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep;

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