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A youth went forth to serenade

The lady whom he loved the best,
And passed beneath the mansion's shade

Where first his charmer used to rest.

He warbled till the morning light

Came dancing o'er the hilltops' rim;
But no fair maiden blessed his sight,

And all seemed dark and drear to him.

With heart aglow and eyes ablaze

He drew much nearer than before,
When, to his horror and amaze,
To Let"


the door.

He saw

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Over the river on the hill,
Lieth a village white and still;
All around it the forest trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze.
Over it sailing shadows go,
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow;
And mountain grasses,

low and sweet, Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river under the hill,
Another village lieth still;
There I see in the cooling night,
Twinkling stars of household light.
Fires that gleam from the smithy door,
Mists that curl on the river shore;
And in the road no grasses grow,
For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

In that village on the hill,
Never is sound of smithy or mill;
The houses are thatched with grass and flowers,
Never a clock to tell the hours;
The marble doors are always shut;
You may not enter at hall or hute



All the village lies asleep,
Never a grain to sow or reap;
Never in dreams to moan or sigh-
Silent--and idle--and low---they lie

In the village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary soul in prayer
Looks to the other village there,
And weeping and sighing, longs to go
Up to that home from this below-
Longs to sleep by the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, the answer fall-
“Patience! That village shall hold ye all!”



He meets, by heavenly chance express,

His destined wife; some hidden hand Unvails to him that loveliness

Which others cannot understand. No songs of love, no summer dreams

Did 'e'er his longing fancy fire With vision like to this; she seems

In all things better than desire. His merits in her presence grow,

To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow

The authentic airs of Paradise. The least is well, yet nothing's light

In all the lover does; for he Who pitches hope at such a height

Will do all things with dignity. She is so perfect, true, and pure,

Her virtue all virtue so endears, That often, when he thinks of her,

Life's meanness fills his eyes with tears.


God speaks to hearts of men in many ways:

Some the red banner of the rising sun, Spread o'er the snow-clad hills, has taught his praise;

Some the sweet silence when the day is done;

Some, after loveless lives, at length have won ilis word in children's hearts and children's gaze.

And some have found him where low rafters ring

To greet the hand that helps, the heart that cheers; And some in prayer and some in perfecting

Of watchful toil through unrewarding years.

And some not less are his, who vainly sought
His voice, and they with silenca have been taught-
Who bare his chain that bade them to be bound,
And, at the end, in finding not, have found.

-The Spectator.

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