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THOMAS MILLER.

JOHN KEBLE.

177

And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow!

Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

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I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well. known tree,

And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,
Touched by the withered hand
Time:

of

And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime:

But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;

And, rich with memory's sweet per

fume,

Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense

shed.

THOMAS MILLER.

EVENING SONG.

How many days with mute adieu
Have gone down yon untrodden sky,
And still it looks as clear and blue
As when it first was hung on high.
The rolling sun, the frowning cloud
That drew the lightning in its rear,
The thunder tramping deep and loud,
Have left no foot-mark there.

Come softened by the distant shore;
The village-bells, with silver chime,
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never rung so sweet before.
A listening awe pervades the air;
A silence rests upon the hill,
The very flowers are shut and still,
And bowed as if in prayer.

And in this hushed and breathless close,
O'er earth and air and sky and sea,
A still low voice in silence goes,
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,

The hive-bound bee, the building rook,

All these their Maker own.

Now Nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave;
The dew steals noiseless on the rose,
The boughs have almost ceased to wave;
The silent sky, the sleeping earth,
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod,
All tell from whom they had their birth,
And cry, "Behold a God!"

JOHN KEBLE.

[1796 - 1821.]

MORNING.

There shalt thou live and wake the O, TIMELY happy, timely wise, glee

That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee,

My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove,

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Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer, nearer,
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

THE MEN OF OLD.

I KNOW not that the men of old
Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow;

I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.

Still is it true and over-true,
That I delight to close
This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose
On all that humble happiness
The world has since foregone,
The daylight of contentedness
That on those faces shone !

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MARY HOWITT.

They went about their gravest deeds, As noble boys at play.

A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet;

It is the distant and the dim

That we are sick to greet: For flowers that grow our hands beneath

We struggle and aspire,

Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire.

But, brothers, who up reason's hill
Advance with hopeful cheer,
O, loiter not, those heights are chill,
As chill as they are clear;
And still restrain your haughty gaze
The loftier that ye go,
Remembering distance leaves a haze
On all that lies below.

THE PALM AND THE PINE.

BENEATH an Indian palm a girl

Of other blood reposes; Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Amid that wild of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy

Is leaning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy

Awaits the impatient hound.

Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,
Relaxed the frosty twine,-
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.

As soon shall nature interlace

Those dimly visioned boughs, As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows!

MARY HOWITT.

TIBBIE INGLIS.

BONNY Tibbie Inglis!

Through sun and stormy weather, She kept upon the broomy hills

Her father's flock together.

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181

She was made for happy thoughts,
For playful wit and laughter;
Singing on the hills alone,
With echo singing after.

She had hair as deeply black

As the cloud of thunder;
She had brows so beautiful,
And dark eyes flashing under.
Bright and witty shepherd-girl,
Beside a mountain water,

I found her, whom a king himself
Would proudly call his daughter.

She was sitting 'mong the crags,
Wild and mossed and hoary;
Reading in an ancient book
Some old martyr story.

Tears were starting to her eyes,

Solemn thought was o'er her; When she saw in that lone place A stranger stand before her.

Crimson was her sunny check,

And her lips seemed moving With the beatings of her heart;How could I help loving?

On a crag I sat me down,

Upon the mountain hoary, And made her read again to me That old pathetic story.

Then she sang me mountain songs, Till the air was ringing

With her clear and warbling voice,

Like a skylark singing.

And when eve came on at length, Among the blooming heather, We herded on the mountain-side Her father's flock together.

And near unto her father's house

I said "Good night!" with sorrow, And inly wished that I might say, “We'll meet again to-morrow.'

I watched her tripping to her home; I saw her meet her mother.

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