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THE ROSE.

E. WALLER.

Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time on me,

That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

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Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired,

Bid her come forth,
Sufier herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she,
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee,
How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair. (A lady of Cambridge, England, loaned Waller's poems to H. K. White, who added the following stanza to the above poem; thus illustrating the difference between earthly and heavenly inspiration:)

“Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;

And teach the maid
That goodness Time's rude hand defies;
That Virtue lives when Beauty dies."

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Within the sun-flecked shadows of a forest glade,
Seeking for wildwood flowers, a little maid
Sang to her happy heart, as to and fro
She wandered 'mid the swaying grasses low ;
When suddenly a brilliant butterfly
Flashed, like a jewel in the sunshine, by
And, darting swiftly now that way, now this,
Alighted on her lips and stole a kiss.
"Forgive me, sweet!” he cried.

"I swear to you,
I only meant to spy a drop of dew
From out the fragrant chalice of these roses bright,
But, hovering undecided where to 'light,
I saw your lily-face uplifted here,
And thought your red, red lips were rosebuds, dear!”
Tossing her sunny curls, she raised her head,
As, with an air of queenly grace, she said:
"This once I will forgive ; but, pray, beware

31

How often you mistake for blossoms rare
A maiden's lips !” She watched him flutter near.
To think mine, roses, you are welcome, dear.

But,” with a merry glance, half arch, half shy, “They do not bloom for every butterfly!”

66 TIRED.”

MISS

HELEN BURNSIDE.
“Tired!" Oh yes! so tired, dear.

The day has been very long;
But shadowy gloaming draweth near,

'Tis time for the even song,
I'm ready to go to rest at last,

Ready to say "Good night:”
The sunset glory darkens fast,

To-morrow will bring me light.

It has seemed so long since morning-tide,

And I have been left so lone,
Young smiling faces thronged my side,

When the early sunlight shone;
But they grew tired long ago,

And I saw them sink to rest,
With folded hands and brows of snow,
On the
green

earth's mother breast.
Sing once again, “ Abide with me,”

That sweetest evening hymn;
And now

“Good night!” I cannot see,
The light has grown so dim;
“Tired!” Ah, yes, so tired, dear,

I shall soundly sleep to-night,
With never a dream, and never a fear

To wake in the morning light.

UNHEEDED PSALMS.

God hath His solitudes, unpeopled yet,

Save by the peaceful life of bird and flower, Where, since the world's foundation, He hath set

The hiding of His power.

Year after year His rains make fresh and green

Lone wastes of prairies, where, as daylight gues, Legions of bright-hued blossoms all unseen

Their carven petals close,

Year after year unnumbered forest leaves

Expand and darken to their perfect prime; Each smallest growth its destiny achieves

In His appointed time.

Amid the strong recesses of the hills,

Fixed by His word, immutable and calm, The murmuring river all the silence fills

With its unheeded psalm.

From deep to deep the floods lift up their voice,

, Because His hand hath measured them of old; The far outgoings of the morn rejoice

His wonders to unfold.

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