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THE TEACHER'S DREAM.

139

And, walking home, his heart was full

Of peace and trust and love and praise; And singing slow and soft and low,

He murmured, “ After many days."

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THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

TOM MOORE.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,

-it was something more exquisite still.

Oh! no

'Twas that friends, the belov’d of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should

cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

THE LOST CHORD.

A. A. PROCTER.

Seated one day at the organ,

I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly

Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming then; But I struck one chord of music,

Like the sound of a great Amen!

It flooded the crimson twilight,

Like the close of an angel's psalm, And it lay on my fevered spirit

With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,

Like love overcoming strife; It seemed the harmonious echo

From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings

Into one perfect peace,

And trembled away into silence

As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one lost chord divine, That came from the soul of the organ,

And entered into mine.

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EXTRACTS FROM “L’ALLEGRO.”

J. MILTON.

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ASTE thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
Anđ love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;

*

To hear the lark begir. his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-briar or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:

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