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All-but that freedom of the mind

Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round!

MOORE.

A BRIGHT AUTUMNAL DAY.

THERE was not, on that day, a speck to stain
The azure heav'n; the blessed sun alone
In unapproachable divinity,

Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light.

How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky,
The billows heave! one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore,
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst,
Embath'd in emerald glory. All the flocks
Of ocean are abroad: like floating foam
The seagulls rise and fall upon the waves;
With long protruded neck the cormorants
Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.
It was a day that sent into the heart

A summer feeling: even the insect swarms,'
From the dark nooks and coverts issued forth,
To sport through one day of existence more;
The solitary primrose on the bank

Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn
Its bleak autumnal birth; the rock, and shores,
The forests, and the everlasting hills,

Smil'd in the joyful sunshine... they partook
The universal blessing.

SOUTHEY

1

THE LOVE OF COUNTRY.

1

LAND of my fathers, though no mangrove 1 here
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear,
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit,
Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree;
Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free!
Free as his lord the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain;
Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might.
Dear native valleys! long may ye retain
The charter'd freedom of the mountain swain;
Long, 'mid your sounding glades, in union sweet,
May rural innocence and beauty meet;

And still be duly heard, at twilight calm,
From ev'ry cot the peasant's chanted psalm!

LEYDEN.

LOWLINESS.

GOD many a spiritual house has rear'd, but never

one

Where lowliness was not laid first,-the corner stone.

TRENCH.

A tropical tree of the Old and New World, remarkable for its seeds germinating even while attached to the branches, and also for the numerous root-like projections which serve as supports to the stem. It grows along the sea shores, rooting in the mud, and forming dense forests even at the verge of the ocean, and below high-water mark: hence, on the retiring of the tide, the stems may be often seen covered with oysters and other shell-fish.

EE

SOLITUDE.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.

BYRON.

THE CHILD OF EARTH.

FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
"I am content to die, — but, oh! not now!
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;
Not while bright flowers around my footsteps
wreathe.

Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow;
I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

The spring hath ripen'd into summer time,
The season's viewless boundary is past;

The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime:
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?

"Let me not perish while o'er land and lea, With silent steps, the lord of light moves on; Not while the murmur of the mountain bee

Greets my dull ear, with music in its tone! Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow! I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

Summer is gone: and autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn.
"Spare me awhile, to wander forth, and gaze
On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays
Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow;

I am content to die, — but, oh! not now!"

The bleak wind whistles:

near,

snow showers, far and

Drift without echo to the whitening ground; Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear, Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound: Yet still that prayer ascends. "Oh! laughingly My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright and high, And the roof rings with voices light and loud: Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow! I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

The spring is come again - the joyful spring! Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;

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The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing;
The child of earth is number'd with the dead!

"Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, Beaming all redly through the lattice pane; The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!

Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow; Why didst thou linger?- thou art happier now!" MRS. NORTON.

PÆSTUM.

THEY stand between the mountains and the sea1;
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck.
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,
Points to the work of magic and moves on.
Time was they stood along the crowded street,
Temples of Gods! and on their ample steps
What various habits, various tongues beset
The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice!
Time was perhaps the third was sought for Justice2;
And here the accuser stood, and there the accus'd;
And here the judges sate, and heard, and judg'd.
All silent now!-as in the ages past,

Trodden under foot and mingled dust with dust.
How many centuries did the sun go round
From Mount Alburnus3 to the Tyrrhene sea,

The temples of Pæstum are three in number, and have survived, nearly nine centuries, the total destruction of the city. Tradition is silent concerning them: but they must have existed now between two and three thousand years.

The third building is styled the Basilica, and is supposed to have been one of those courts or porticoes intended for public assemblies and for walking; part appears to have been separated by columns, and appropriated for the magistrates and principal citizens.

A mountain of Lucania.

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